Even Jedi Cry
by Valairy Scot
Summary: Feeling betrayed by Obi-Wan, a dying Qui-Gon severs the bond as Obi-Wan heals him on Naboo. The backlash proves too much for Obi-Wan, the prognosis grim. Mace Windu takes on the task of caretaking Obi-Wan. But not all is as it seems. May be rated too hgh.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

The clash of lightsaber against lightsaber was already of the past; the battle ended. One combatant still stood, weapon held loosely in one hand as he wearily contemplated what this victory had cost him. The tide of adrenaline that had sustained him ebbed, only to resurge as his mind comprehended his new reality.

He stood alone on the field of battle. At what price, victory?

A sluggish, weary body obeyed the command of a suddenly alert mind: go to him. He will need you, to save him or ease his passing. Nothing else for the moment matters. Only he.

One moment he trembled, standing – there. The next moment he trembled – here. Where an invincible man lay in a heap, no longer invincible. Even the mighty did not stand forever. The warrior had fallen at last.

He who had been the least among them was the only one still to stand.

Time, which had seemed to hold its breath, was again as it had been.

Except that one who had been the student now cradled the one who had been the teacher.

And wept.

**Chapter 1**. **Even Giants May Fall**

The Jedi master had been a large man in both physique and presence. Crumpled on the cold floor, the giant had become a dwarf, shrunk by his mortal wound; he who had been amongst the more powerful of the Jedi now only a mere man, dying, on a strange planet far from "home," dying for duty, dying with no one at his side to mourn him.

Dying alone for he feared none others yet lived – for his enemy, too, had surely died, along with the student he had been willing to set aside for another - while that other student, the one he wished to now guide, had been imperiled elsewhere and was far from his side.

He had left the Chosen One behind, left him hidden and hopefully safe, but he had sensed during _his_ battle that Anakin was no longer safe. Anakin had been in danger, in the thick of a different battle.

The dying Jedi feared that he, too, no longer lived.

Naboo had not been kind this day to those who knew the Force. It had taken them all, or so the Jedi feared, for the Force did not speak of others to a dying man. It offered comfort of a different kind: welcoming arms, whispers of everlasting peace, a gentle welcome "home."

It was not the comfort he sought. Comfort for this dying man was to know the fate of those he loved and hoped he was leaving behind, alive. Comfort could not come when he feared that they had already preceded him into the Force, dead.

Afraid there was no one to mourn him and yet hoping there was. Suspected otherwise.

Was he, the dying, the only one still living, however long that life might last?

Surely that was so. Dead, all were certainly now dead, and soon he would join them. He was fading; a strangled cough shook his chest. The Force was reaching for him and he could feel a familiar presence within it. He was dead, then. They were _all _dead. He would be with them in a few minutes, and a hint of a smile mixed with a tear at the thought.

_I had hoped you lived. I shed my last tears for you. Know you held my heart_.

He felt a swell in the Force; it offered knowledge of that one's fate: its gift to the dying.

"He lives," the Force whispered around him. "He lives yet."

His failing heart quickened with his joy.

He lived, yes, and that glad knowledge filled him and gave him peace as he struggled to draw his final breaths. The pain was intense and the smell of charred flesh and smoldering cloth filled his nostrils, but soon he would be resting in the soothing arms of the Force from whence he had come. It was always where he was destined to return, for the Force was both womb and grave; it was, ultimately, home.

Of regrets he had few, and they centered on the one whom he now knew he was leaving behind. The Force would guard and guide him equally as well as he could have done. He could die content in that knowledge.

Then something – someone – lifted his shoulders and wrapped him in an embrace.

"Master;" the whispered word fell like teardrops upon his face, damp and full of grief and affection.

He lived!

A hand sought upwards to touch the young, smooth cheek. "Anakin," he whispered, too soft for the one who cried for him to hear the spoken name. The Force had said he lived, and indeed he had. He tried to smile. What better time to die, than in the arms of one he loved?

_I'm ready_, he told the Force.

*

"Master!" Obi-Wan's voice strangled in his throat. Nothing in the past mattered: disagreements, hurt feelings, and harsh words now forgotten, unimportant. Life mattered. Qui-Gon Jinn mattered. The man he would give his own life for without one second's hesitation mattered. Only he mattered.

And he was dying, slipping away into the Force.

He would give everything to he had to this man, and if it wasn't enough, he would give more, give until there was nothing left to give, and if that still was not enough, there wouldn't be enough of him left to even know of his failure. His fingers touched his master's temples, seeking life, seeking to give life. The only sound was of his breathing: harsh, hard pants that almost drowned out the name spilled from the master's lips even as the hand fell limply away from the padawan's face.

"No!" This broken scream was not the harsh denial that shook the Force when the Sith's blade had pierced the master's chest. This scream was a bare whisper, but no less heartfelt.

And a tear fell.

*

A guttural cough broke the silence and proclaimed that two as yet lived. Jedi impassivity shed, the padawan pressed his lips to the master's forehead as his braid swung forward and brushed across Qui-Gon's lips. The tip came to rest on one of the wounded man's hands and a finger weakly twisted around it.

"O…Obi-Wan?" Realization hit Qui-Gon.

It wasn't Anakin, not the one he meant to have as his padawan, but the one still bonded to him. _No_, and his tears mingled with those from above.

He slipped back to the ground, filled with his pain. "He lives," the Force had let him know. "He." Not, "they." He had thought – hoped, but the Force had misled him. If one only had lived, why hadn't it been Anakin? That was who mattered. Anakin, only.

"Y…yes, Master," the young Jedi nodded, eyes blurry but still able to trace the lines of his master's face between his two hands as he channeled healing Force through them.

Letting go the braid, Qui-Gon weakly raised his hand to the damp face; traced a cheekbone still holding a touch of roundness, touched a tear trickling slowly down the grief-filled face. Obi-Wan, it _was_ Obi-Wan's face; the padawan he had wanted to discard for another.

_Why? I wanted Anakin at my side as I died_. _Obi-Wan is here instead_ – _he who opposed me, defied me_ - and Qui-Gon slapped his face with all his waning strength. Obi-Wan rocked back, face frozen.

"Your fault – your failure. You…you – were better – than that. I thought…," and the dying man's words trailed off.

*

"N…no, Master," the young man gasped, redoubling his effort to send healing energy into Qui-Gon's fading body, pulling recklessly from the Force. "I won't let you die. I will not fail you this time."

Power, healing energy streamed from the Force in response to the padawan's call.

Obi-Wan laid himself bare, submerging all that he was into the Force in desperation. He stripped from his own reserves of strength, banished his shields, wiped out all thought until he became little more than a conduit for the Force. Heat and fire and light flooded him; molten flame coursed through his veins, searing, burning, scorching until he couldn't hold it anymore and it started to fade.

The Force was retreating from his grasp because it would not allow itself to be used to kill one in order to save another, for it was created of life and would not destroy it, as Obi-Wan was being destroyed.

A cool whisper brushed against his mind and through his body, soothing the cell-deep pain as it slipped away.

Obi-Wan gasped from his effort, chest heaving, mind burning, heart numb, as the power receded. He trembled from shock, awe and fear. He had not been strong enough to hold it and the Force would not let its vessel be shattered.

He stared down at his master's slack face, hardly daring to breathe in case it drowned out the sound of Qui-Gon's breathing.

Had enough Force flowed through him to sustain life? Had it been enough, or had he, again, failed?

After what seemed an eternity, but was only a few heartbeats, Qui-Gon opened his eyes and stared back at him, only to whisper words that turned his despair into a frigid hollowness that swallowed Obi-Wan's heart and shocked his tears into frozen ice.

"But you did fail me – you – left me to face him – alone….Anakin would not have. Anakin – would have saved me. You – are my death. My padawan…no more."

And that's when the real pain engulfed him.


	2. The Hollowness of Being

**This story is also posted on jc.n and anticipating a few ofthe comments received there, especially from Qui-Gon fans - this story deliberately starts out playing up certain aspects of certain characters to that character(s) detriment. My intent was to explore the extremes of personalities, and in relation to Anakin, get out some festering Anakin-dislike by making him truly despicable - and yet human. In later chapters characters will be drawn back into a middle ground where some will no longer be so OOC. My hope is that any character hate may soften to understanding and a bit of pity for the choices some made and the paths some were led down, for any trait such as compassion can be "bad" when taken to extremes.**

**This story is in a way about balance: about human failings ad human triumphs and the rocky path we call life. Or, I'm jut being grandiose (wink).**

**Final note: I don't respond, or rarely, to comments on this board for a number of reasons. I do on the other board, however.**

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****Chapter Two. The Hollowness of Being**

Some weeks later…

He stared out the window, into a sullen, gray sky, only his breathing betraying that this statue was alive. He had stood, unmoving, for an hour or so, frozen in place, eyes unfocused as idle thoughts swirled in his mind. It should be winter out there, as it was winter within him – barren and hollow, but he no longer knew.

His wounded mind had lost much, including track of time. _Was_ it winter – bare trees and stark branches, shades of black and gray buried within shadows under a weak sun? A foolish thought, for Coruscant was made of nothing natural, and one season was impossible to distinguish from another.

Coruscant was nothing like – that place. Hell. A shudder ran up his spine, unnoticed.

He had thought Naboo beautiful, once. Before. When he could still see beauty in the world. When he could appreciate the lordly waterfalls dropping like necklaces of liquid silver into pools sitting in meadows of soft green under an open blue sky. A city of towering spires and rounded domes, colorful flower boxes brightening the plazas. He had had barely time to appreciate its beauty then, though it had soaked into his soul; now it haunted him.

Like so much else, what was once meaningful and good had turned cruel. Had he acknowledged such an emotion as love, he had loved it, but love had shown him its darker side, to end his life as he knew it.

Did flowers still bloom on Naboo? Were the days sunny and the citizens now happy, freed from the yoke of occupation? Did they rejoice, or did they, as did he, wander in the memories of bygone days, remembering what had been lost and could not be reclaimed?

Was Naboo warm under a summer sun, or did it shiver in the dark?

Had one season moved into another, or had time even moved on? It was hard to tell the seasons on a planet that was all city, climate-controlled, all but artificial except at its core. It was a planet that masqueraded as one, as he masqueraded as a Jedi.

They were frauds, both imposters in their universes, outwardly one thing and inwardly another. They all knew it; he could see it in their eyes. Concern, dismay, pity. It was why he had been all but hiding in the cocoon that had been his refuge, his bed in the healers ward, but he could hide no more. The healers had given him no more reason.

Taking pity, or withdrawing it, he wasn't sure, but discharged him from their care they had done. Life went on and so must he. He had shed far too many tears. It was time to stop and to move forward. He just wished he knew how.

He leaned forward, finally, and pressed his face to the transparisteel panel. Its chill went unfelt; he was already cold, always cold. Warmth was one more thing denied him, since that day. He wondered if he would ever feel it again – if he even remembered how it felt. Would he ever know, or was he locked forever in this stasis – stagnant and molding, only half-alive and no more than half-dead?

A hand dropped on his shoulder and he started, eyes betraying his confusion as he relaxed and turned around. He startled too easily these days; shied from most touches, fled most looks and well wishes.

"Obi-Wan, I'm sorry," the sonorous tones held a hint of apology. "I startled you."

He nodded, shrugged. He hadn't yet gotten used to the sensation that someone had crept up behind him, taking him unawares. For too many years he had felt the approach of someone's Force signature, augmented his human senses with the Force.

"I wasn't listening – I should have heard your footsteps," he said, shivering suddenly. "Is it winter?"

"Hmm, I suppose so," Mace conceded, a puzzled frown on his face. "Why?"

Obi-Wan looked at his fingers, rubbed them against each other. "Cold. Dreary…empty."

"You need some hot tea, then," Mace said briskly, knowing that Obi-Wan was alluding to himself, not the weather. He had brought Obi-Wan from the healers ward just a few days before, and in that time had wrapped innumerable cloaks and quilts around the shivering Jedi.

"Come, sit."

He still wondered if the healers had released him too early, but they had advised that Obi-Wan needed to ease back into life, not stay wrapped in his cocoon of solitary existence amongst the sick. What ailed Obi-Wan needed tending by other than by healers; it needed a slow introduction to living again.

"How's Master Jinn?" he asked abruptly. Surprised, Mace turned to look at him, saw genuine curiosity.

"Secured his final medical release, too, though moving a bit slowly still."

"And Anakin?" Obi-Wan was staring at his fingers, twisting them, and for some reason Mace's heart twisted within him. The young man was still not well, perhaps would never be, yet he found it possible to inquire about the one who was, in a way, responsible for his illness.

"Master?" he said, patiently waiting, raising his eyes to meet Mace's.

Well, the moment had come, then.

No matter how calm Obi-Wan was now, Mace expected a teary breakdown shortly – the healers had told him to expect them, though the occurrences were less and less frequent with time. Mace brought two cups of tea over and set them down on a small side table, covered one with his hand and shook his head as Obi-Wan reached for it.

"Qui-Gon and Anakin had the braiding ceremony a few days ago, the day I brought you here." Mace watched as Obi-Wan sat silently absorbing the news. He blinked, the only sign of his having heard, but ripples were stirring the Force.

"Oh," he finally said, closed his eyes. The ripples swelled, grew to waves. "Oh," Obi-Wan said again and lifted a hand to his head, as if pressing the very spot he imagined his end of the bond with Qui-Gon had been attached.

Mace caught him as he crumpled forward; eyes closed against a sudden onslaught of tears and held the shaking man until the tears lessened.

"Drink your tea before it gets cold," Mace said, not unkindly, briskly.

This, too, the healers had advised. Obi-Wan was emotionally fragile, but somewhere inside he was still the man they had known. He would be embarrassed and he would feel his display of emotion was inappropriate. His behavior was entirely consistent with the damage to his mind, though, and the best way to react was simple and straightforward.

Obi-Wan pulled away, rubbing a hand over his eyes to remove the tear tracks and nodded albeit shamefacedly. Tears, emotional vulnerability - all Jedi learned early in life not to display such, for vulnerability could be exploited. The healers had tried to prepare him for these types of reactions with the same incomprehensive medical jargon they had used before the Council.

He hadn't liked what they had had to say anymore than he liked it when their words proved accurate, but the matter of fact way that Mace Windu, Yoda, and the few other Jedi he saw accepted such moments seemed to have helped to ease his discomfort.

"I suppose…they both got what they both deserved," he observed, looking half surprised at his attempt at a joke, poor as it was. Mace gave him a surprised look and then nodded.

"One might say so," he agreed dryly.

"Why?" Obi-Wan asked suddenly, setting down his half-drunk cup of tea. At Mace's inquiring look, he waved his hand around, half embarrassed, indicating "here."

It was not too hard to guess what Obi-Wan meant and was unable to verbalize.

"Why did I bring you here to my quarters?" he asked, and Obi-Wan nodded. "I suppose I could tell you that it's my duty as a Council member, but I don't think you'd buy that, would you? The truth?" He hesitated, not sure he could explain it adequately or without causing Obi-Wan more pain.

"Your, um, status, is unsettled right now," Mace winced at the expression that crossed Obi-Wan's face, to be quickly wiped away. "We've offered you a well-deserved promotion to knight which you have – for now – declined. Then there's the fact that you're still convalescing; it's not good for you to be alone…. Force, Obi-Wan, don't make me admit a small part of me enjoys rubbing this in Qui-Gon's face."

Stirring restlessly, Obi-Wan shook his head. "He never meant – to hurt me, not like this. He was hurt, dying…the Force -"

The frown that had always intimidated Obi-Wan made an appearance. Adi Gallia had once told her fellow Council member that any padawan that no longer quailed before it was automatically ready to be knighted. What was worse, Yoda had smirked and agreed with her.

And now ready-to-be-knighted Obi-Wan Kenobi accepted the frown without comment. It usually looked far fiercer than the emotions behind it. In this case, the barely repressed emotion raged far fiercer than the frown would indicate.

"I'm tired of hearing Qui-Gon use the Force to excuse his behavior. There were far kinder ways of accomplishing what he accomplished. You may not blame him for your suffering but I do," Mace said bluntly. He softened his voice. "I once promised him I'd look after you if anything happened to him before your knighting. I now transfer that promise to you, Obi-Wan; I'll stand at your side as long as you need someone there, even after your knighting. You won't be alone until you're ready."

"Thank you," Obi-Wan choked out, wrapping the quilt even more tightly around himself. "It – might be a while."

"No miracles, Obi-Wan. All I expect is that you try, and I know that you are capable of achieving anything you attempt. You will find healing."

"E…even if I…don't regain – the Force?' Obi-Wan's voice wobbled.

"You're still Obi-Wan Kenobi, with or without the Force. You will recover, and if you never touch the Force again, it still clings to you like a lover and flows through you like the air you breathe; Force, it _dances_ around you. It is still your companion – never forget that. Never!"

Mace's tone was fierce, but its very intensity heartened Obi-Wan.

_Forget_…oh, but if he only could. But he kept reliving those last few blurry weeks, searching, always searching, for a reason.

It always came down to one reason: the Force itself must have willed it.

He nodded wearily and huddled into the couch, seeking to forget, seeking to banish the chill, and seeking to reclaim who he was. He closed his eyes, but he could not close out those memories. They tormented him, these memories of how it had been – and the knowledge of how it now was.


	3. Before the Storm

**Note: I am quite appreciative of critiques, for how else can one correct one's weaknesses? But for those who don't know the difference between critique and criticism, let me offer this: a critique points out what works and what does not or an alternate way to present information. It may be a request to "show" not "tell" with a sample of how to accomplish that.**

**It is not, however, I "don't like" how you write. **

**I do not write "action" stories; I write character stories. If you dislike such, you will be happier not to continue reading and seek out stories that you do enjoy. **

**I hope you all enjoy this more light-hearted look "back" before the storm. (And yes, this starts out a rather convoluted time line - my beta wasn't around to kick around the idea of how to approach this story at the time and I was a bit flummoxed on how to approach it.)**

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Chapter 3. Before the Storm

"I guess it's no rest for the wicked." The dry comment as they exited the Council chamber brought a twitch of amusement to Qui-Gon's lips.

"Wine, women, or song?" The master threw a sideways look at his padawan. "Just what have you been up to while we've been separated?"

"It's in my mission reports, Master," Obi-Wan replied serenely. As Qui-Gon cleared his throat, clearly deciding whether he wished to pursue this line of conversation, Obi-Wan chuckled. "I have behaved quite properly as a Jedi should."

"Of course you have."

After a moment's reflection, Obi-Wan added thoughtfully, "However, once back at the Temple…."

Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed and his steps slowed as the words sunk in. Obi-Wan calmly swept past him, hands tucked in his robe sleeves, innocence radiating from him.

"What? Obi-Wan, get back here like a good padawan – even if you've been a bad padawan." Qui-Gon caught up to his waiting apprentice at the lift entrance that would carry them from the Council spire down to the Grand Promenade. "Just _how_ bad?"

"Well…." Obi-Wan looked around and leaned forward to whisper into Qui-Gon's ear, "I fathered six children in one twenty-four time cycle -."

"Oh, Padawan, you didn't." Qui-Gon groaned. "Wait a minute – Obi-Wan!"

Despite the twinkle in his eyes, Obi-Wan continued solemnly on, "And then I asked Master Yaddle to marry me. She accepted, though Master Billaba tried to win my heart away from her. The ceremony is, ah, tomorrow."

Qui-Gon crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "And Master Yoda didn't object?"

"Not at all. Master Yoda said he'd cater– yup, stew. I'm thinking of calling the ceremony off just because of that."

"I would, too," Qui-Gon shuddered at the very mention of that vile concoction, even as Obi-Wan had. He shook his head, and asked quite seriously, "Whatever horrible thing did I do in my life to deserve a padawan such as you?"

"Live virtuously? I'm the Force's gift to you."

"I think I'll give you back." Qui-Gon smiled and reached out to tweak his padawan's nose. As Obi-Wan grinned at him, he glanced sideways and asked, "Six kids?"

"Two sets of triplets out of ten partners."

"Quite a feat, considering you've never kissed a female before."

"Even if true, that is not how one fathers children – one does not use the lips, one uses -." Obi-Wan shut up as Qui-Gon put a finger over his lips.

"I am quite aware of the machinations of reproduction, Padawan, and I am most definitely giving you back. After we complete this mission, of course."

Obi-Wan hadn't been kidding about the "no rest," even if had been kidding about the "for the wicked."

After a long spate of tiring, occasionally hazardous, missions, Obi-Wan had hoped for some down time, even just a few days. Since he wasn't to be granted even that, he now looked forward to this relatively straightforward diplomatic mission where the biggest threat would not be physical, only mental. He would rest enroute, for letting his attention wander due to fatigue would be inexcusable for a Jedi.

He knew Qui-Gon felt much the same.

This was their first mission together after three consecutive separate ones for Obi-Wan; two for Qui-Gon. Solitary missions were a test of a senior padawan's capabilities, a chance to put in practice all his training and identify whatever weak spots might remain while at the same giving the master a chance to familiarize him or herself with working alone once more.

He had been on numerous solitary missions over the past four years or so, but never three back to back, let alone followed by this fourth one teamed with Qui-Gon just days after the successful conclusion of his last one.

Now they were on this diplomatic ship the Chancellor had put at their disposal, but at least this mission was allowing them to catch up with each other. Qui-Gon and he had done little more than cross the occasional path in weeks, speak somewhat more often.

The little time they spent together was rare, and thus precious. It had prompted his master's hug when he returned from that last mission, his preparing Qui-Gon's favorite meal upon the master's return the time before that, the stretching out on the couch with feet on the table and having slightly too much to drink together, spurred on by increasingly ribald jokes.

Relaxing and enjoying what time they had.

Just as they did several evenings prior, before they left for Naboo to negotiate this simple end to a trade dispute. They had been talking of nothing in particular, only of whatever caught their fancy.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon had asked with a sly smirk, "So, padawan mine, not counting triplets, what do you count your greatest accomplishment lately?"

His reply had been prompt. "My ability to deliver a mission report without being intimidated by Master Windu's frown. I no longer have your broad back to hide behind."

His grin had been met by Qui-Gon's roar of laughter. "A worthy accomplishment, indeed." When the laughter had died down, Qui-Gon had leaned forward and smoothed the braid over his padawan's chest and left his hand hovering over it for a minute. When he added, "I am proud of you, Padawan," both knew he spoke not of Obi-Wan's newfound bravery before the Council, but of more, far more.

Was separation soon and inevitable?

They had not spoken of it as yet – the possibility that it might soon be time to start the intensive work towards Obi-Wan's trials.

Sometimes the young Jedi wondered if there was even the slightest possibility he might be considered ready, yet Qui-Gon would often study him – and sigh. Was that a sigh of regret that their time together might be slowly drawing to an end – or a sigh that Obi-Wan had not yet progressed that far?

It was not up to a Jedi padawan to wonder nor to indulge in wishful thinking, but he was just as much a man as a Jedi. Curiosity, many said, was both the blessing and the curse of humankind. Many of Obi-Wan's age mates were knighted already. He did not deny their readiness, only doubted theirs exceeded his.

In what aspect of his training might he be deficient? His connection to the Living Force?

If that were the issue, he'd be a padawan forever, were it up to Qui-Gon. Most Jedi favored one side of the Force over the other; he was paired with a master whose affinity was most decidedly not his own and one who might never be satisfied with his padawan's erratic adherence to the same.

It might well take a Council edict, in that case, before Obi-Wan ever had the chance to lose his braid. Was it possible for the Council to force a master to let his padawan take the trials against the master's wishes?

Part of him yearned for that culmination of all his years of training, and part of him quailed at the thought of putting part of his life forever behind him.

_Patience, Kenobi_, he counseled himself, standing at the cruiser's view port, Naboo still some hours away. _You must learn to control your impatience, still. And focus – you're on a mission, even if we haven't officially arrived. You know what Qui-Gon will say if he catches you daydreaming._

"Obi-Wan." A firm hand dropped onto his shoulder as Qui-Gon moved beside him, to stare out the transparisteel port beside him. "The easier the mission in theory, often the harder it is in actuality. Remember to mind your focus."

Had there been a hint of a chuckle in his master's voice? He faced outwards, his eyes in shadow so that any betraying sparkle of amusement in them was not visible.

"Yes, Master." There was little point in voicing his unease, Obi-Wan decided. It had not yet arisen to the point of a "bad feeling" which Qui-Gon would dismiss anyway. When – and if – it did, he would voice it. When – and if – he did, he would be admonished once more to turn his attention to the here and now.

He nearly sighed at the futility of it all.

Why did the Force call things to his attention if he was not to pay them mind? The Force should call them to Qui-Gon's attention, for the Jedi master was the sole arbitrator of what had meaning or what was merely the fancies of a worry-prone padawan.

"Master." He laced his fingers together and then turned to fully look at Qui-Gon, who still stood in profile. Reassuring in his very solidness, yet the padawan's keen eyes had not failed to pick up traces of weariness far more visible than previously. "Are you well, Master?"

"I'm quite well, Padawan. I shall seek my rest shortly."

Somewhat reassured, Obi-Wan nodded. "As I shall now, with your permission, Master."

"Of course, Padawan." A warm smile accompanied the words, which Obi-Wan returned.

Despite their differing relationships with the Force which occasionally infused their partnership with minor bouts of conflict, he considered himself fortunate in his master. Obi-Wan knew quite well of the sterile personal relationship between Qui-Gon and his master, Dooku. It in some ways mirrored the early years of their own partnership.

Over time the two Jedi had crafted their master/padawan relationship into something unique and satisfying. Hierarchy of rank still existed, but genuine friendship flourished as well. It allowed them to weather the occasional disagreements and disgruntlements of close association. It mended the hurt of hastily spoken words.

It would keep them close after Obi-Wan's knighting, forever linked by affection.

Qui-Gon turned and watched his padawan take his leave. The boy was tired, he knew, betrayed by the softness of his speech as much as by the slightest of slumps to his shoulders.

So was he, far more than he should be.

The Council had been sending his padawan on difficult back-to-back missions; their intent obviously to push Obi-Wan's limits. It was a sign they were considering speaking to Qui-Gon, if he did not speak to them first, of allowing Obi-Wan a chance at his trials.

It could just as easily be interpreted, he conceded, as a sign of their displeasure that Obi-Wan was not yet at that point in his training.

_Is he ready? Am I?_

It was why he didn't speak to Obi-Wan about a day that must someday come.

A knight should not be, as Obi-Wan occasionally was, impulsive and quick to judgment. In his own estimation, if not the Council's, neither was he as attuned to the Living Force as Qui-Gon would like.

On the other hand he was smart, levelheaded, and skilled - all the attributes the Order wished in its knights.

He rubbed his temple with a finger. Such thoughts needed to be set aside, for soon they would arrive at Naboo.

He would enjoy introducing Obi-Wan to the pleasure of dealing with Neimoidians – a joy that ranked on par with sitting down to a stew dinner with Yoda – that was to say, no joy at all!

At least the negotiations would be relatively quick and easy. Those of the Trade Federation were easily cowed by those of strong will and mind. It did rather beg the question of just why they would so quickly jump to blockade a planet, a rather minor mid-rim planet, with regard to the Senate debate on taxing trade routes.

There had to be some good reason Naboo had been targeted.


	4. Naboo Redux

**Chapter 4**. **~Naboo redux~**

Naboo, again. Neither Jedi were enjoying this trip, for this time contrasted poorly with their first journey. Acrimony had reared its ugly head.

Obi-Wan had been quite unreasonable. Qui-Gon's mouth tightened. Worse than unreasonable – he had dared to question his master and to question the Force's will. Neither was forgivable.

His treatment of Anakin Skywalker was abominable. The galaxy's salvation, the Force's own "Chosen One" was a small nine-year-old boy torn from the only life he knew – a terrible life, to be sure – but the only one familiar to him. He should have been welcomed with open arms by the entire Order.

Instead he had been called dangerous by the Council – and by Obi-Wan.

This boy blazed in the Force; a beacon amidst the parched landscape of Tatooine where they had been forced to land to secure repairs to their ship, damaged in the escape from Naboo.

A disgruntled padawan had remained behind on the ship, keeping an eye on and company with four young ladies, one of them supposedly the Queen, and several guardsmen. Disgruntled, because as a Jedi on a mission, he could not properly entertain himself with a young woman, had one been willing and of legal age?

Drat the boy and his jokes about triplets – if there was one thing he was certain about, it was that Obi-Wan Kenobi was no womanizer – and no true servant of the Force, as it had turned out.

Anakin Skywalker had burst like celebratory fireworks over the Jedi master's senses at first meeting, nearly overwhelming him. Kind, compassionate, giving – the Force could not have chosen a better one to be its emissary. Obi-Wan's midi test on the boy's blood served only to confirm what Qui-Gon already knew.

This boy would save them – those now trapped on Tatooine, the Jedi Order, and the galaxy itself.

He had been half-drunk with eagerness to bring the boy before the Order. And enraged when he had.

"_He shall not be trained." _

Mace's words had fallen like acid rain.

"_I shall take him as my padawan learner."_

Obi-Wan's shock and anger had flashed through the Force like a lightning bolt.

"_A padawan you have already, Qui-Gon."_

Yoda's rebuttal had been a slap in the face.

Every cell in Qui-Gon's body demanded the boy be trained. For all the Order's prattle about sacrifice in the service of the Force, no one – not the Council, not his padawan, not even his friends – was willing to put into practice what they swore in principle. They would not sacrifice Obi-Wan Kenobi at the altar of the Force's will.

Of course it was unfair to Obi-Wan that he was not ready for promotion but fairness mattered not at all.

Only Anakin did.

Even now, on the way to Naboo, the silence between the two Jedi was sharp and sullen.

Qui-Gon fumed, still, and Obi-Wan sulked like a petulant child. Only Anakin behaved as if nothing was wrong, throwing sideways looks at the padawan and adoring smiles at Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan was a thundercloud that sought to obscure the sun of those smiles with frowns of discontent. It rather surprised the Jedi master that the Queen and her handmaidens remained blissfully unaware, or too tactful, to inquire as to the sour mood that Obi-Wan trailed in his wake.

If bursts of girlish laughter were intermixed with a young man's soft voice, out of sight, it was easy to dismiss such as any evidence that Obi-Wan was perfectly well behaved around others. Around Qui-Gon or Anakin he was not, for the pure civility he displayed towards Anakin surely only concealed contempt and dislike, ill-considered jealousy and spite – behavior beneath a man and a Jedi both.

How could he once have so misjudged the young man as to think him a padawan without par, a thoughtful young man with a bright future? Qui-Gon was too disgusted to even feel sorrow – for with his behavior, Obi-Wan was beneath contempt.

At least he had Anakin.

The journey back to Naboo was uncomfortable, not to say distressing, for Obi-Wan on far too many levels.

Qui-Gon and he had barely exchanged a civil word since the landing pad on Coruscant. Tentatively offered smiles of reconciliation were ignored. Any glance or word directed at Anakin, no matter how innocuous, earned a silent glare from his master and a smirk from the boy.

He avoided the company of them both as much as possible and said as little as common courtesy required. Only around the others did he dare to relax, even a little. They were aware of the strain between the Jedi, but out of politeness did not refer to it or take sides.

At night he lay awake pondering this massive unbridgeable breach between them. At the moment it no longer mattered what the cause or who owed whom an apology. Jedi forgave and forgot, made amends and moved forward. Healing did not come by admittance of or avoidance of blame, but by forgiveness.

Qui-Gon had taught him this. Why now, when it was most important to honor this, did Qui-Gon rebuff his attempts at reconciliation?

Anakin, as well, but the boy did not know better.

Obi-Wan regretted some of the words he had said. Honest words, his personal assessment that coincided with the Council's, spoken not from personal hurt but insight through the Force.

He did not regret the speaking out, for Qui-Gon had always encouraged him to speak his mind, but that he had spoken without notice of the boy's presence, spoken words not meant for his hearing. Words that had hurt and confused the boy.

That he had hurt another, even unintentionally, hurt almost as much as Qui-Gon's withdrawal.

He had tried to catch Anakin's eyes, to speak with him and make amends, but Anakin would only turn hurt eyes and quivering lips to Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan would once more be skewered by shards of anger and hurt radiating through the all but closed bond.

When Qui-Gon would turn aside, unable to bear the sight of his padawan any longer, Anakin would smirk.

So Obi-Wan became a silent wraith in their presence. Only with the crew and the Queen's entourage was he able to interact without fear of repercussion. In their presence, he regained hope and optimism that all would yet be well.

Yet he knew all too well the signs. Something bad was coming.

It would make their first arrival on Naboo seem like a perfectly peaceful welcome, the poison gas and attempts on their lives notwithstanding.

Qui-Gon took a deep breath of clean, sweet air. Naboo pleased his senses, vibrant with the Living Force he found so enchanting even if currently polluted by the occupying Trade Federation with its prison camps.

Soon it would be cleansed, should all go well. It had so far.

Their arrival on planet had not been momentous. They had easily evaded the Trade Federation's ships, sliding through the blockade without incident. It was a promising beginning, somewhat mirroring the recent fragile and tentative truce between the two Jedi.

All seemed harmonious once more. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had made one tentative step towards reconciliation, but it was a fragile peace. It would hold until their return to Coruscant.

The Gungans and the Naboo gathered in a loose knot near a copse of trees bordering a vast meadow as they awaited the return of scouts. The day was mild and the breeze barely ruffled the Jedi's cloaks. A peaceful day, a beautiful day, a day that might see the liberation of Naboo depending on the scout's return and the success of whatever plan they devised.

Anakin stood by Padmé's side, gazing at her with adoring eyes. The sight made Qui-Gon smile. The young Queen had captured the boy's heart upon first meeting. Her friendship had done much to sooth a confused, lonely boy's hurt at Obi-Wan's words and actions – even if no one admitted it, all knew that Obi-Wan's selfishness and pride at being supplanted was the cause.

Qui-Gon wasn't sure he could ever forgive that, not entirely, even if Anakin displayed signs of doing so. Such behavior should be reprimanded, perhaps censured, once they returned. He doubted the Council would go so far. It would no longer be his responsibility.

Obi-Wan would not have another chance at failure in his soon-to-be-ex-master's eyes.

The formerly laughing-eyed padawan was now quite the chastened young man, focused finally on the mission ahead, not his personal disappointment.

He had said little since his apology in the swamps, once more on Naboo. Though his eyes would occasionally stray to the boy and away; it seemed that Obi-Wan had come to accept that it was the Will of the Force that placed Anakin at Qui-Gon's side when Obi-Wan had not yet left it.

That tacit acceptance had softened Qui-Gon's admittedly harsh thoughts on Obi-Wan over the last few difficult days. He could now see that the boy had been trying to make amends for his behavior ever since he had come to realize how deeply he had hurt both Qui-Gon and Anakin, and proven himself enough of a man to admit it.

After the harsh words between them – between the first time on Naboo and here a second time - their tattered relationship was finally healing, now that Obi-Wan had reconciled himself to the way things had to be. Obi-Wan had been the one to breach the relationship and thus it had been right it had been he who reached out to mend it. They would part ways without rancor or bitterness, for he would leave Qui-Gon's side after this mission.

Whether he would remain with the Jedi or not was no longer the Jedi master's concern.

Given time and sufficient maturity, Obi-Wan would be a fine knight. Given a new master, since it was clear he would not be granted his trials, he would achieve that.

Failing that…Obi-Wan was the sacrifice the Force demanded on behalf of its Chosen One. Kenobi be damned, when the future of the Chosen One was at stake.

This was not how Qui-Gon had wished this to end. He had hoped to cut the braid himself; send Obi-Wan off to his future and welcome Anakin to his side. The Force wished otherwise.

He absently brushed away a tear sliding down a cheek.

The tear evaporated, replaced by a fond smile as he caught sight once more of the boy, chattering away, smiling, and eager to assist in the liberation of Naboo.

Anakin Skywalker. That was who was important. Anakin, only Anakin.

After successfully infiltrating the tunnels to Theed hangar, things had taken a definite turn - for the worst.

Pilots, those liberated from the camps by the scouts, scattered for their fighters while the ground assault teams headed for the massive doors, to split and take various routes to the palace. They never made it.

A mocking tattooed figure calmly blocked their way, the warrior Qui-Gon had battled on Tatooine, so he knew this was no ordinary warrior, no Neimoidian nor hired gun. Implacable determination and pure contempt infused his posture.

He waited, waited for the Naboo – and the Jedi – to make the first move.

Now in the middle of one battle, two Jedi had a second battle to fight. Cold certainty told him this was where the true fight for Naboo lay. Perhaps it was the cockiness, the sense that the Zabrak gave the appearance of strutting while not moving a single muscle except for his lips, bared in a smile dripping with arrogance and conceit.

Worry twisted through the Jedi master's gut, not for himself, but the small boy that accompanied them.

He had to protect Anakin!

"Hide," Qui-Gon sternly demanded and reinforced that with a finger. His tone left no room for dispute. Anakin quickly scrambled away though his concern for the Jedi master and Padme roiled the Force, sufficient to attract Obi-Wan's sideways look. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

With one last look over his shoulder, Qui-Gon turned his attention to the mocking figure ahead, but it was not so easy to turn _all _his attention away from Anakin.

If he were honest with himself, Qui-Gon's first instinct was to let his padawan and the Sith do solitary battle while he remained to guard the rest of the party. If Obi-Wan were outmatched and were to fall in battle - as seemed inevitable in such a scenario - such was the fate of a Jedi: something to be mourned, but something that would have to be. A Jedi's duty was to the defenseless, not to the preservation of his own life.

Regardless of instinct, his primary duty was to protect the Queen, and if that duty conflicted with his duty to protect the boy, he had no choice. Battling this malevolent Zabrak was protecting the Queen, so battle the menace ahead was what he would do.

So it was that duty took Qui-Gon away from the planned battle to take the palace and reclaim Naboo for the Naboo, to fight a dangerous and unknown adversary.

Despite himself worry for the boy gnawed at his mind, a distraction he could not afford but a distraction he could not dismiss. A child no matter how gifted in the Force did not belong in the middle of a battle. A child was to be protected. The Chosen One was still a child, untrained, not yet a Jedi.

His senses quested out; found the boy ensconced within one of the fighters! Worry intensified. That was hardly safe and hidden. The droids would surely target the ships as well as the Naboo.

How could they – he – leave the Chosen One there, unprotected?

Because he must. Because duty demanded he go against every instinct in his body.

He felt himself fall into rhythm with his padawan. Side by side they dropped their cloaks in unison as if choreographed for a dance; side by side they ignited their lightsabers and side by side they moved forward. Anticipating the move, Qui-Gon struck as Obi-Wan somersaulted over the Sith's head to attack from the rear. Their tactic failed; the Sith was well trained and easily the equal of the two Jedi. He was younger than Qui-Gon, and far more experienced than Obi-Wan.

For a brief moment, the Jedi felt a prickle of fear. He released it to the Force. The Jedi would prevail, for the Jedi had to prevail.

In that moment, a kick knocked him backwards and he fell to the ground. Obi-Wan rushed in to protect him; the Sith retreated. Qui-Gon nodded in satisfaction; Obi-Wan made up in sheer determination what he lacked in experience and he was taking the battle to the Sith. Then realization set in.

The Sith was retreating on purpose, trying to separate the Jedi. He would kill Obi-Wan first, then take on Qui-Gon one on one. The outcome was uncertain, and should Qui-Gon fall, too, both Anakin and the Queen would be in danger.

No! The Jedi master regained his feet and chased after the combatants, now battling out of the hangar.

Qui-Gon spared a quick look back; Anakin was still safe in the ship, unharmed as yet, but the ship was moving, firing, taking down droidekas. He felt a rush of pride laced with fear. He almost turned back before moving forward to join his padawan. However, his motion drew Obi-Wan's eyes, and in that moment the Sith caught the padawan with a kick to the chin that sent him flying to the slick floor where he slid into a wall.

Qui-Gon winced, he could tell it hurt even without feeling Obi-Wan tamp down the pain.

_Get up, Padawan!_ He mentally urged his apprentice with a quick glance. _We can finish him, corner him, if you move – now!_ As if sensing his master's command, Obi-Wan regained his footing to help herd the Sith against bare air, a possibly fatal fall at his back, and feinted, leaving an opening for Qui-Gon to dart in and press the attack. It would have worked against a lesser opponent.

Calling on the Force, the Sith somersaulted to a metal grid walkway in the vast chamber, and the Jedi immediately followed without thought, one to either side. The fight raged on, where a fall could be fatal, one misstep away.

Now, more than ever, keeping focused was keeping alive.

In that moment, Qui-Gon's mind wavered for a fraction of a second, sensing something from Anakin. The boy was in the grip of strong emotion, desperation and wild joy…in danger, and the Jedi's focus was split between the battle before him and the boy somehow in space far above him. Little was left for his padawan; their rhythm grew uncoordinated.

And the unthinkable happened.

Anticipating, incorrectly, his master's move to distract the Sith, Obi-Wan's attack from behind was instead perceived and his rush deflected by the unexpected kick that sent him flying backwards over the edge, plummeting into empty air.

Qui-Gon chose to battle on alone.

He could not and would not help Obi-Wan; he had to trust him to save himself. Qui-Gon took the fight to the Sith.

Alone.

And fell to his blade.

Alone.


	5. No Peace for the Wicked

**Chapter 5. No Peace for the Wicked**

A strangled gasp and low moan awoke Mace Windu, alerting him that the young Jedi in his care was in the throes of a nightmare once more. He threw off his covers and headed to Obi-Wan's side as he had done nearly every night since installing him in his second bedroom.

He supposed he could have slept through them did he so choose. He did not.

Whether he woke Obi-Wan or not was not the important thing. It helped the ailing young man feel accepted when acceptance was hard to come by, and while it in some ways also burdened the young man with a sense of guilt, it was scarcely noticeable amongst the already heavy burden of guilt he shouldered.

Kenobi struggled with the shambles his life had become while Jinn frolicked with his precious padawan. A fair assessment or not, Mace didn't particularly care.

His old friend Qui-Gon seemed almost besotted with this boy. He had already thought of ordering him to see the healers – mind and body – for an explanation, but right now he trod on dangerous ground. Qui-Gon brooked no talk of his behavior, now or then. When things calmed down, he would reconsider it then.

In the meantime, Obi-Wan was his concern. The entire Council was appalled, quite frankly, but all agreed the important consideration was Obi-Wan's health. He had once been a Jedi of much promise – now his very status as a Jedi was in jeopardy.

_He will make it through this! If strength of character is enough, he will fight past this illness of the mind and heal._

Yoda, too, was deeply concerned. He only sighed and his ears curled forward when they spoke of him, as they did daily. The ancient Jedi was as heartbroken as Mace himself, both betrayed by emotions that surprised them. Just as unlikely was the wish to throttle both Qui-Gon Jinn and the Force itself for what they had taken from the young man.

He grabbed a glass of water on his way to Obi-Wan's side and set it on the small nightstand as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Wake up, Obi-Wan," Mace laid a gentle hand on the tossing Jedi's forehead, as always frowning at the coolness beneath. "Obi-Wan, you're safe and Qui-Gon is alive. Wake up, now."

Bleary, red-rimmed eyes finally opened and stared at him, blinking in confusion. Mace smiled and helped Obi-Wan to sit up. Once he was leaning against his pillow, he offered the glass of water which Obi-Wan sipped.

Obi-Wan suddenly shivered. The glass in his hand trembled; Mace steadied it before it spilled its contents. "I don't want to go back there – why do I go back there?" He sounded like a hurt child. In some ways he was. What was worse, the part of him that wasn't knew the other part was. Obi-Wan was not whole. The healers had tried their best to explain, but their explanation hid their own uncertainties.

Obi-Wan was broken, organically and mentally. Whatever damage Obi-Wan had done to himself to save Qui-Gon was magnified by what Qui-Gon did to him. The combined effect left this trembling, emotionally fragile and Force-blind boy behind.

For some reason, making Obi-Wan speak of those experiences helped him sort through the memories and make some twisted sort of order out of his life.

"Tell me," he urged, a gentle hand on his shoulder to encourage him. "Tell me," as Mace steeled himself to hear it once more.

"Tatooine." Obi-Wan bit his lip, repeated the name. "Tatooine."

Tatooine, not even their destination, but his destiny, bound to a nine-year-old boy. Naboo had severed Obi-Wan from the life he had known, and severed him completely and utterly from the man he had once been proud to call master.

He would have given his life for Qui-Gon Jinn on Naboo but the Force had not allowed it. It had instead allowed him to live, and he sometimes wondered why. Those were the times he found himself weeping in Mace's arms, and heard words meant to comfort: "The Force wants you to live, Obi-Wan. It has need of you and someday you will understand why. The Light is still within you, you just can't see it yet."

Someday those words might comfort him, for now, they strengthened his resolve to make something good from the bad.

Words, he had discovered, had power beyond themselves. Words could heal and words could wound.

"_I take Anakin Skywalker as my padawan."_

He had been blindsided by his master's words before the Council but that had not lessened his respect or affection for Qui-Gon. They had, however, inflicted pain. The words had cut deep and the wound bled in hurt silence, until the padawan had realized -what words had hurt, words could heal – and healing was what was important.

He would forgive, for that was what a Jedi did.

"_I am sorry, Master."_

Obi-Wan had swallowed his pride and hurt, his utter humiliation, and asked forgiveness for speaking his mind as he had been taught by example and expectations. It had been granted, or so it seemed, their relationship no longer strained and the two again working in tandem. Encountering the Sith in Theed hangar had changed that.

It was not a battle to end all battles, only a battle to end the life Obi-Wan had once known. He just hadn't known it.

_The Zabrak: the one Qui-Gon had battled on Tatooine. Obi-Wan's heart thudded in his chest. Beside him, his master stood outwardly calm, prepared, but inside – inside raged many emotions._

_Chief amongst them: indecision._

_He could feel the conflict within Qui-Gon: it was not just the mental preparation for the confrontation with the figure that stood all but mocking them. He didn't have time to analyze it, other than to know it was a conflict he had never thought to feel in his always-decisive master. He clamped down on his own feelings. Excitement and fear tried to course through him; more likely, adrenaline from anticipation of the coming encounter in terms that made sense._

_Somehow he knew this Zabrak who radiated supreme confidence was a fighter unlike none he had ever before encountered. Cold, calculating and assured; Obi-Wan had no doubt it was a Sith as Qui-Gon had claimed had attacked him on Tatooine. _

_It was time to set aside all discord between them and seek harmony, for only working as the team they were did they stand a chance. If Qui-Gon's skills had barely allowed him to hold his own on Tatooine, Obi-Wan himself would be taxed to his maximum. He was not Qui-Gon's equal in prowess; his edge was youth and agility. Only together, by combining their strengths and working with purpose could they offset the Sith's advantage._

Focus_. He drew in all his attention so that it encompassed only he and Qui-Gon and their adversary. _

_A second blade, vermillion like the blood it would soon seek to spill, shot out of the opposite edge of his lightsaber. Obi-Wan's eyes widened as beside him Qui-Gon hissed through his teeth. With one accord, they launched themselves – and found themselves in a furious battle._

_First Qui-Gon was kicked out of the fight. Obi-Wan pressed forward, biding time by strutting cockily as the Sith eyed him with amused disdain. It allowed Qui-Gon a chance to pick himself up and rush to his side. _

_He was sent flying next, sliding across the polished floor, but somehow not losing his grip. _Up, Obi-Wan, up_, he could hear the exhortation through the bond. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain and surged to his feet. Qui-Gon could not – would not – fight alone._

_Together they herded the Sith against bare air, a possibly fatal fall at his back, and Obi-Wan darted in and out, a feint, leaving an opening for Qui-Gon to press the attack. It should have worked and would have worked against a lesser opponent._

_The Sith somersaulted to a metal grid walkway in the vast chamber, and the Jedi immediately followed without thought, one to either side. The fight raged on, where a fall could be fatal, one misstep away. Now, more than ever, keeping focused was keeping alive. _

_And the unthinkable happened: Qui-Gon's focus wavered._

_Without the anticipated distraction Obi-Wan's attack was deflected, a kick that sent him plummeting into empty air. _

_Qui-Gon seized his moment; a resounding blow and attacked in a fury. The Sith fell back. Qui-Gon carried on the attack, relentless and unstoppable; he trusted his padawan to save himself while he carried on with his task. _

_Twisting his body in mid-fall, Obi-Wan smashed into a lower walkway and grabbed the edge as his momentum carried him over its edge and nearly tore his fingers from their desperate clasp. Shoulders, hands and fingers all strained under the pressure, but his grip held long enough for him to stop his wild swing and pull himself to the walkway, where he gulped in several deep breaths of air and reached to reclaim his lightsaber which had landed nearby. _

Wait for me, Master!

Hurry up! I need you here, now! Hurry!

_Obi-Wan took a final calming breath and drew on the Force to propel him upwards into a huge leap to a higher walkway. He didn't have enough left to put into a Force-propelled run. He pumped frantically after the two duelists, his desperation to catch up bleeding into the bond._

Focus, Obi-Wan! You were careless_. Impatient and demanding, it was both a criticism and a plea sent through the bond – you lost your focus and therefore your footing – regain your focus and save yourself so you can rejoin me to finish this battle._

_He never did catch up. _

_All of them reached a long passageway; all were trapped behind energy gates. Even when the gates opened, Qui-Gon did not wait for him and fought on alone, with Obi-Wan still trapped behind a gate and mentally urging his master on until the moment the Sith plunged his lightsaber into his master's chest and stood triumphant, to turn and look at the apprentice with a look that said clearly: Prepare to die, you are next._

_But he had not died, not in the way of mortal flesh. The Sith died at his hand, at his fallen master's blade. Qui-Gon lived, and Obi-Wan - only a part of him died that day, in that place, at that time._

_By a blow struck by Qui-Gon Jinn._


	6. After the Ecstasy, the Agony

**If any wonder, it is very true that Qui-Gon and Anakin are almost one-dimensional characters. So far. That will not change for a while, so fair warning - and no complaints, okay (wink).**

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* * *

****Chapter 6. After the Ecstasy, the Agony**

"Shh, Obi-Wan, shh." Mace's calm voice was a balm across his scorched soul. "Just breathe; that's good, in and out, slow breaths."

Trembling hands went to his head, and Obi-Wan nodded shakily. "Qui-Gon wasn't dead, but I didn't know that. I – I don't know that I thought, or felt anything except this incredible connection to the Force. I lived…I lived as never before; knew the Force, as never before – was humbled as never before, never again to be," he swallowed hard, "to be the same."

Beside him, he felt more than saw Mace shake his head, to tell him once more that no Jedi was the same once he made that leap of _knowing_. What he had gained, as those before him and those to come after him, _he _had now lost as they had and would not.

"I fell so fast from grace." He brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away a betraying tear. Hot, it was hot. Hot…like what was forever burned upon his soul.

_Agony_ and _ecstasy_, only in his case the agony came after ecstasy just as failure came after success. For one sublime moment he had known the unknowable; he had touched the face of the infinite only to tumble from such transcendental heights of awareness when those senses were stripped away from him and the knowledge – stripped away as well.

Something had been building in him ever since Tatooine – jealousy and humiliation, he supposed, fuel for the dark side. On Naboo those feelings had tipped to hate and anger. He had been tempted to the dark, held it within his hand only to fall…and in the middle of the abyss he renounced those feelings; he had reached for the light without regard for his mortal life, seeking only the salvation of his soul…

…and he had escaped that yawning pit when the Force offered its hand in acceptance of his.

_Yet the other pit, this of reality, still lay before me_…he murmured.

At the pit's edge he stood panting; his opponent tumbling to some unknowable depth, already dead, cleft in two. His eyes, while tracing the Sith's fall, saw not at all, for his senses were fixed inward, immersed in what he had struggled so long to find. His connection to the Force was pure and strong, its power his to draw on whenever and however necessary.

Obi-Wan had found the inner strength and determination to make the final step on his path, when he let go of all that bound him and reached for the Force's will. He alone now stood, loosely clasping his master's lightsaber.

He was power, he was strength, he was life – and he was humbled, for the power, the strength, and the life was not his, only his to draw upon.

He had touched the Force often during the years of his training, but he had finally made the leap from touching it to feeling it, and without being told, he knew he had achieved what had so long eluded him. He knew now he hadn't been ready when Qui-Gon had proposed his taking the trials. He had found a new level of awareness and for a moment Obi-Wan just soaked it in, then his awareness expanded outwards to the man lying across the chamber.

Qui-Gon Jinn, his master and his mentor, his friend, dying while he stood embraced in the arms of the Force.

Guilt and sorrow washed over Obi-Wan again. He drew his knees to his chest and locked his arms around them, gazing inwards as Mace dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, lending his strength until he was ready to resume.

"I was alive as never before and Master Qui-," he swallowed, "Everything had changed."

Obi-Wan Kenobi was alive, but the man he had spent nearly half of his life beside was dead, and he, the cast-aside padawan, now lived as a man who had been forced to take a life for the first time – he had gained much, but oh, he had lost so much more.

Qui-Gon Jinn was dead.

Obi-Wan hadn't been in time, physically or with this new connection to the Force. Success had come at the price of failure, and that meant success had not come at all. He had lost focus just as Qui-Gon had accused him of, and because of that, his master was dead.

His fault.

He knew, now.

Qui-Gon's dying gaze had accused him, scorned and vilified him. He had let his master down and his failure was complete. His master's last gesture to his padawan: repudiation and Obi-Wan knew the life he had known was all but over. All his hard work and innate skill had been – inadequate and insufficient. Qui-Gon's initial assessment of him had been correct all along and now all would know it.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had failed his training, failed to focus, and therefore failed to be at his master's side when fate beckoned.

A gurgle broke against his senses…a dying man's last breaths. Qui-Gon still lived!

All faded to inconsequence: his newfound awareness of the Force, his failure to be the Jedi he had trained to be, even the anger and despair. Past success or past failure, it didn't matter – nothing mattered except that Qui-Gon yet lived, and as long as he was alive, he was not dead.

Determination took the place of all Obi-Wan had let go. He would save the Jedi master's life. He would empty all that was his own life into him, to save him, if that were at all possible. He poured most of himself into the task, once he reached his master's side, cradled the man that had guided him to this moment.

And that determination had not wavered, despite the words, despite the wound incurred by his master's own hand.

He drew on the Force without mercy, drew on his own reserves, drew on everything he could summon and poured it all into the man who had all but ended his own life, giving the injured man the strength to wield the final weapon that he turned against his own padawan.

And the Force responded to his call.

Strength and power and light, a wave of pure power built to a pulse-pounding blinding crescendo of agony and ecstasy until it became too much for mind and body to bear and it slowly receded from his grasp with a final parting caress as if to say: Not ready are you, child of the Force, to handle this much power. Receded until it became only a memory, the echoes still ringing in his cells as liquid fire shriveled nerves and mental connections were torn asunder.

For the bond had been severed at his most vulnerable.

There was nothing of Obi-Wan left but pain. Pain, unbearable pain…his lips parted in harsh panting breaths… his hands flashed to his head….and the Jedi screamed without sound as he toppled into merciful darkness, sweet oblivion just as two Naboo guards sent in search of the Jedi arrived in time to see the younger Jedi crumple atop the other.

Bypassing the energy gates with an override, they rushed forward, boots slapping across the polished floor and skidded to their knees beside the two men, carefully disentangling them.

Obi-Wan only barely knew he was alive, on some level, when a hand touched his shoulder and rolled him onto his back, of a surprised face inches above his own, and a relieved: "Master Jedi, you are alive. Thank the Force."

He quickly decided that either nodding or shaking his head only made him feel worse, something he hadn't thought even possible. He blinked and tried to focus blurry eyes, recognized that it was a Naboo and struggled to his elbows. His hands instinctively went to his head and it was all he could to do to say yes, and wonder dully, why. Perhaps – perhaps the Force, too, repudiated him, did not want to be polluted by the likes of him.

Why else had it fled?

He couldn't touch it – it wasn't there – he had channeled everything into his master, and a whimper escaped. "Gone…" he whispered, and closed his eyes.

"No, he's still alive, he's not gone," a voice reassured him, mistaking his soft cry as concern for his fellow Jedi. "I've summoned medical help. You'll be okay, young Jedi. Just lie still. You've done your best; you've defeated that – creature, from what I can see."

The words cleared his head, as much as mere words could.

Was the Queen safe? The mission – the mission was important. Duty. _When things are at their worst, that is when you must follow the Code_. Yes. Duty. Had not Qui-Gon himself reminded him of that, drilled it into him?

He tried to sit up, and shook uncontrollably. He looked up at the guard, misery in every line of his being, and reached out with a shaking hand. "Help me up, please."

The guard shook his head and placed a gentle hand on the Jedi's chest. "No, stay down."

Fever-bright eyes stared back at him. "I have no choice," he panted. "Please, help me."

Softly worded, it was a plea the guard just could not ignore. Real need shone in those eyes, stronger than the pain, stronger than the grief. He reached down and a strong hand grasped the smaller one.

Up you go, then," he said, and steadied the young man when he seemed about to collapse. "Just take a deep breath, sir. It'll be okay."

Sad eyes turned to him. "No, it won't," Obi-Wan said, very concisely, and blinked several times trying to hide his dizziness and lack of equilibrium. When he finally opened his eyes, they were clear and determined, whatever pain he harbored mere shadows in their depths.

"I must get to the Queen. Please see that Master Jinn is taken care of," he said and disappeared without a backwards glance.

He wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground, curl up in a ball and weep with the pain in his mind, but nothing could stop a determined Jedi, so Obi-Wan forced himself forward, doing his best to ignore what he could not banish. Even one as unworthy as he could still carry out his duty to the best of his ability, and that duty was to assure the Queen's safety.

Each step sent quivers of agony up his nerves; each footfall thudded in his mind as much as on the marble floors.

Of shattered glass and scorch marks he took no heed. With lightsaber ready in one hand, he slipped down corridors, checked around corners before advancing, forced feet to ascend stairs until he heard voices, jubilant voices ahead.

In the Throne Room, for he remembered the holographic map of the Palace from the briefing, seemingly so long ago. He sagged with relief as he walked unsteadily forward and stood in the doorway, fingers fumbling to reattach his lightsaber to his belt.

The Queen was with her advisors – and young Anakin Skywalker, all rejoicing in Naboo's liberation and already making plans to empty the camps. The boy was being feted as a hero – _the_ hero of Naboo, and no one even noticed the arrival of a lone Jedi, or eventually, that same Jedi's departure.

Partway down the long hall he stumbled and leaned against a wall, weary beyond belief and closed his eyes.

It was done.

The Queen was safe, mission achieved, duty done. He could collapse anytime now. He wavered on his feet, passed a hand over his eyes and pressed his face to the wall. Perhaps…perhaps he should just allow himself to slide to the floor and stay there.

"Are you okay?"

A hand, as gentle as the voice, settled on his shoulder. Both felt like a soothing balm. He straightened and turned around, bracing himself with one hand. The Queen stood before him, concerned eyes looking him over.

"Padawan Kenobi, are you okay? Is Master Jinn okay?"

He tried to nod and shake his head all at one time. It merely made his head pound. Bad idea, that.

"Master Jinn was being transported to the med center; he is – in very bad shape," he managed to force out through stiff lips; the Queen gasped. "Do you - have further need of Jedi assistance?"

"I think the Jedi is the one in need of assistance," the Queen said, her voice gentle and concerned. "Your face is bruising badly and you look like you can hardly stand." She reached a hand to his face and lightly fingered the forming bruise.

Obi-Wan flinched away from her touch; too wrapped up in shock and pain to appreciate any kindness on his behalf.

"Excuse me, milady, but if you don't need me…," he trailed off.

"Of course you may go to your master's side," she replied, not catching the sudden pained look that came over his face.

He nodded stiffly, made himself add, "Tell – tell Anakin…."

"I will break the news to him," the Queen instantly agreed. "From one hero's lips to another's ears. Have I thanked you, Obi-Wan Kenobi? You and Qui-Gon Jinn have both earned the respect and thanks of the Naboo."

It was almost too much to bear.

The Queen thanked him – words, all words, but words that stabbed deep - condemned by his master and commended by the Queen. He licked his lips, said hoarsely, "I killed him. The Sith. I have – never killed – before – I -." He pressed his lips together, managed to pull himself into a semblance of himself, and bowed, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"You did your duty, Obi-Wan."

He couldn't bear to hear her commendation turned to condemnation once she knew the truth.

"I did – what I did, if you'll excuse me, please."

He managed to stay upright, shoulders back and head tall even as he sagged inside, until he was out of sight, alone in a corridor where he leaned into the wall, trying for some semblance of control despite the pounding in his head. The nausea didn't hit until he was outside and he purged himself into an unlucky flower box.

When he was emptied of all that was inside him, his head still throbbed and he didn't feel at all better. Every cell in his body seemed alive, nerve ends raw and touched by needles.

Somehow, he made it to the medical center without drawing attention or comment, somehow he made it to Qui-Gon's room to await his return from surgery, and somehow, he managed to look like someone not devastated by his losses.

Qui-Gon may have renounced him, but he had not renounced Qui-Gon. He would be at his side until and unless sent away.

Eventually Qui-Gon was brought in from surgery, still smelling of bacta and still, oh-so-still. The man once vibrant with life seemed now an empty shell, fragile and easily lost. Obi-Wan stayed well out of the way, leaning against the wall until the healers left and he could finally seat himself at his master's side.

Biting his lip, he reached out to a big hand and lifted it within his. It was still much larger than his; that at least had not changed.

"Please live, Master." The healer had already assured him of that when he had asked if Obi-Wan needed medical attention – he had whispered no and shook his head - but he still felt the need to voice his plea. He carefully wrapped his fingers around the limp hand and leaned forward, resting on one elbow. The only reply was the steady sound of the monitors.

And so he sat for long hours, the dutiful padawan at his master's side, waiting for he knew not what, his mind a blank. Naboo was free, the Council had been notified – there was nothing at all he needed to do anymore.

So he would just wait.

When leaning forward grew uncomfortable, he leaned back into the chair, shifting awkwardly. Its hard edges knew where each bruise and contusion was. He sat for endless solitary hours; slumped in his seat with legs splayed out before him, moving only to the fresher and back.

Despite everything – the ruination of his life, his humiliation and shame – Obi-Wan still loved this man at whose bedside he sat, he who had raised him, taught him, and ultimately discarded him. Forgave him; hoped for his own forgiveness, and emptied his mind of all other thoughts.

His entire being was focused on Qui-Gon: graying chestnut hair lying loosely on the pillow, lids covering the eyes that had accused him of failing, chest slowly rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"He'll live," the healers assured Obi-Wan each time they entered and left, thinking the news would please him.

He supposed it did, but he was too numb to think in terms of pleasure or of pain. Feeling – feeling _hurt_, and he was far too tired, and far too numb, to feel, to face pain.

"He didn't mean it," he mumbled more than once, eyes never leaving that face. "He - didn't….."

Yet within his heart, he knew better. Qui-Gon did blame him; Force, he even blamed himself. One kick that sent him tumbling, one kick that kept him from his master's side and one kick that would probably get him dismissed from the Order for incompetence if a recovered Qui-Gon had his way.

No matter that battle was uncertain, the unexpected the only thing one could expect. He hadn't moved fast enough to evade that kick and subsequent tumble.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was the reason his master nearly died.

Force he was tired. If Qui-Gon would just wake, he could sleep - relegate the nightmare to the realm of wakefulness and find oblivion. But Qui-Gon didn't wake and so he stayed awake, rubbing his face as if that alone would wipe away the fatigue.

He dropped his head into his hands to weep – and found he already was.

He scrubbed his hands over his eyes, but the tears continued to fall. "Shouldn't… shouldn't," he whispered, especially when he heard footsteps approaching. "Jedi don't cry -."

"Even Jedi cry," a familiar voice informed him. Obi-Wan blinked furiously and raised his head. Master Yoda stood in front of him, wise eyes fixed on the padawan. "Tears, release too this can be. Your master, how is he?"

"Alive," he whispered, swallowing a sob. "He is alive, no thanks to me and my master no longer."

"Why say you this?" Little shocked the diminutive Jedi master, but Yoda was shocked and dismayed.

"I was separated from him during battle, I – lost focus," Obi-Wan said dully. "My error, my fault. Qui-Gon saw my failure and has repudiated me, rightfully so."

The little Jedi grunted and patted the padawan's knee. "Regret he will those words, young one. Knows better he does. In pain, dying, who knows what the mind sees and twisted the words come out. Of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn did not speak those words, for proud of you he is. Alive, as well, because of you we have been told."

"No, Master," Obi-Wan denied, as politely as possible. "He cast me off, once he spoke those words. I am a padawan without a master."

"Oh, dear Force," Mace said softly, standing behind Yoda.

Obi-Wan just closed his eyes, hardly noticing or caring what they thought. Let them exchange shocked looks, let them leave the room to confer – he heard Yoda's soft grunt, the one that indicated one was to follow – let them do whatever it was Jedi masters did in such a situation as this.

He had been only half-aware of their presence anyway and thus would barely notice their absence. Obi-Wan cared only that _he_ was present, for his presence meant he still lived. It barely registered on him when young Anakin barreled into the room, followed by a soft cry of pain on seeing Qui-Gon asleep and heavily drugged.

"Why didn't you protect him?" he cried shrilly, turning to Obi-Wan with a look of utter contempt. "You weren't good enough, were you?"

"I'm sorry?" Obi-Wan looked up in utter confusion, having barely heard more than the voice. The boy, yes, it was the boy whom Qui-Gon had chosen over his padawan.

It was one of the things clear in his mind: Qui-Gon's hands on the boy's shoulders, the ringing declaration that he would take Anakin as his padawan. He had thought he had known utter humiliation at that time, until Qui-Gon had pushed him away by pushing him towards the trials, his endorsement of his padawan's readiness casual, plucked from the air: capable.

Was this how Qui-Gon had truly seen him? Merely adequate, barely capable, easily pushed aside for one he truly desired when his heart's desire appeared? A child of prophecy over one of flesh and blood?

This boy in front of him – Anakin – had smirked inside, rejoiced in another's pain. He had felt it, there in the Council chamber. He had felt it, there inside the ship. Dark, primitive gloating…malicious but without true evil, for evil did not exist in the young, only the seed of evil to come. True evil grew over time.

What was the boy spouting now?

His hand moved to his head, rubbed it, but the pain had not lessened. Was the boy now telling him he wished Obi-Wan had died in the battle? No, no, he was sure he wasn't hearing correctly. Force, how his head hurt.

He leaned forward and rested his aching head upon crossed arms.

"Get away from him," a shrill voice demanded; a small hand yanked at his arm, trying to dislodge him from Qui-Gon's side. "You should have died there. I would have saved him, but you couldn't. I knew I was better than you. He knew I was better than you. I would have saved him -."

"Quiet young one," a voice thundered.

Yoda bounded into the room with as stern an expression as had ever been seen on that placid face. Seeing that Mace, behind him, was crossing to Obi-Wan to catch the wilting young man, Yoda turned his attention back to the boy who futilely struggled to escape the hand on his shoulder.

"Saved Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan did. Channeled the Force into him and kept him from dying. Speak not of things you do not know." He broke off at a sibilant hiss from Mace.

"Yoda, Obi-Wan is injured." Mace was pressing a palm to Obi-Wan's forehead. "Stay with me, Obi-Wan. Why haven't you sought treatment?"

Confused, semi-lucid eyes stared up into Mace's. Obi-Wan blinked, and struggled upright.

"I'm okay." He flushed at his lack of courtesy. "Master, I'm just tired. I'll be okay," and he collapsed bonelessly into Mace's arms with a low moan.

Triumphant spite shone from Anakin's eyes.


	7. Wounds of War

**While this story is indeed largely dark, there will be moments of light peeking through here and there, I promise.**

**Chapter 7. The Wounds of War**

Mace cursed under his breath as he shifted the unconscious Jedi to get a better hold on him. "Call a healer; I saw an empty bed next door," he snapped, and carried the young man into the next room and deposited him on the bed, yanking off his boots and bending over the young man.

"Padawan," he called, but there was no response. He frowned. "Obi-Wan?" He was pressing his fingers to the young Jedi's temples when a healer hurried in.

"This is the other Jedi," he said, narrowing his eyes. "How long has he been like this?"

"He just now collapsed," Mace returned; his stern stare almost seemed to impale the healer. "You didn't think to ask him if he was hurt? You just assumed he was okay?"

The healer did not look offended at the sharp tone as he bent over the prone form. "Of course I asked. He said he was not injured; only a bit bruised and exhausted. I had no reason to doubt him and since we are understaffed and overrun with wounded from the camps, I took him at his word. Would you have done different?"

Mace dropped his head. "No. You're right. He merely looked exhausted, or so I assumed." He watched as the healer checked Obi-Wan's vital signs, lifted a slack eyelid, all the while throwing a running commentary over his shoulder to the watching Jedi.

"Temperature a bit low…blood pressure, too. Probably dehydrated – I don't think he's left the other Jedi's side except once or twice. Respiration is fine, so's his heart. Okay, let's get him out of those clothes if you don't mind lending a hand."

Mace supported the young man's torso as the healer quickly stripped the tunics off the unresponsive padawan, revealing raw red skin bordered by puffy white blisters alongside his ribs just above his waist where a lightsaber had scored his side. The wound was more burn than penetrating; much to Mace's relief little skin was actually charred.

The Jedi master understood why it hadn't been visible – Obi-Wan practiced a highly athletic style of lightsaber combat. The lightsaber must have scraped across his side as his tunic had lifted in some aerial motion, leaving the tunic itself untouched.

The healer proceeded to check the young Jedi's body thoroughly and completely for any other wounds that may have been concealed, finding only strange burn like marks on his fingers and palms and several bruises – on his hip, one arm, and his jaw. He treated the large wound with bacta and wrapped his chest, then set up an IV to drip nutrients into the weakened body.

"I'll be back to check on him shortly and we'll run some tests. We've critical patients in greater need at the moment. The wounded from the camps are still flooding in." He passed Yoda on his way out.

Mace stood silently, eyes bleak and hooded as he stared down at the unconscious Jedi as Yoda hobbled to his side, leaning heavily on his gimer stick.

"How is our young one?"

He hopped up on the conveniently placed chair and affixed his eyes to the pale man in the bed before turning them to his companion.

"Weak," Mace said grimly. "He's got some bruises, a few odd burns on his fingers and palms I'm at a loss to explain and a close escape from a rib carving that is pretty serious but could have been deadly. I don't know how he kept going so long, but that's not the worst of it. I'm no healer, but I think his mind is damaged; see for yourself. I think he needs a Jedi healer for what ails him."

The ancient Jedi leaned forward and splayed a clawed hand across the young Jedi's forehead, his acute Force senses reaching out as his brow wrinkled with concentration. His ears drooped. "Hmm," he muttered. He straightened up and leaned on his stick, looking at Mace with troubled eyes. "Ill indeed he is – yet he does not allow the Force to sooth him – shies from its touch, almost."

Both Jedi looked at each consideringly. A wizened claw scratched thoughtfully at Yoda's jaw, telling Mace that a nearly forgotten memory was working its way to the surface. From the way his ears curled and drooped as he let out a long sigh, it was not a memory that Yoda had wished to remember.

"Seen something like this I have, once. Many years ago, young padawan I was. A severed bond, and the mind severed it was, too. Never the same was that Jedi."

"Oh, Force," Mace swore. "Do you think the bond was severed – by the Sith? That he had that much power?"

"No, by either this one. Or his master."

The room became very silent, other than the soft sniffling of the unconscious man. Mace sat down heavily and shook his head in simple denial. This – it just couldn't be.

_Yes, so it can be_. Yoda's steady gaze meant he would not allow either of them to retreat from the truth. He nodded, once; then turned once more to the young Jedi.

"Such pain you are in, young one, such pain. Why so much pain?" His whisper was almost too soft to hear. Perhaps, Mace thought, he was not meant to. He knew Yoda and Obi-Wan shared a deep bond of affection neither alluded to. His next words only confirmed Mace's suspicions when the older Jedi told him what was already obvious, his hand gently patting the limp arm before him.

"A powerful bond there was between master and padawan. Very painful this severing was. His tears, understandable; raw his emotions are - his mind lacerated and brain reeling. The padawan we knew – never the same will he be, and know this he will. Shame and fear this one will feel, unworthy." Yoda swiveled his head and raised sad eyes to Mace. "Our help he will need; ask for it this one will not."

Though he had all the power of the Force at his disposal, the Jedi master had rarely felt so helpless, but when he looked at Obi-Wan's face, he realized true helplessness lay in front of him.

_Never the same will he be_. Yoda's words echoed within him.

Was all the promise in this young Jedi to come to naught, his talents, skill and dedication left unrealized? Mace slowly extended a hand, meaning to rest it on the shoulder before him. For some reason it hesitated before concern instead carried it forward to untwist the braid crushed under a shoulder and smooth it over the sleeping man's chest.

"One more…he needs just one more…." Mace let his words trail off, shook his head and looked up at Yoda.

"I'll stay with him. If you don't mind, you can stay with Qui-Gon," his mouth twisted, he was still shocked at what he'd overheard, "and talk to the boy, Anakin."

"Listen the boy will not. Much anger in him – close watch on him we must keep. Beyond hope…I do not know. Help him we must, for all our sakes." Yoda squeezed his eyes shut and slowly opened them. He shook his head and hobbled off, his stick barely making a sound, not at all its usual brisk staccato rhythm.

Mace didn't know which bothered him more – Obi-Wan lying before him, looking so young and vulnerable, or Yoda's words, still hanging in the air.

A flutter of eyelids, a lick of dry lips and a low moan marked Qui-Gon's first awakening since his nearly fatal injury. He shifted uneasily. A small three-clawed hand touched his.

_Yoda? _

Why wasn't it Obi-Wan's hand? His eyes struggled to open and when they did, to focus.

His nose twitched involuntarily.

"Not…again," he breathed. The smell of bacta alone told him he was lying in a medical center, not to mention the barely-dulled-by-drugs ache in his mid-section. If only those same drugs muted the agonizing pain in his head – had red hot claws ripped through his mind, cell by cell? He turned his head carefully to the side and blinked. "Yoda?"

The name came out in a raspy croak. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of his situation. There was only one way to find out – ask, so he overrode the little master's inquiry on how he felt.

"Why… are you here?"

"Here, Mace and I have come, to learn more of the Sith that Obi-Wan slew – the one who nearly slew you."

_A Sith?_ A momentary panic overcame him_. Obi-Wan?_ But no, Yoda said Obi-Wan slew the Sith. He had survived the encounter. _Thank the Force._

But why couldn't he remember?

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, pulling from his memory. Naboo, yes, the Council had sent him and his padawan to protect the Queen – there had been a battle – yes, he remembered reaching out to Anakin - he had been dying – he remembered dying and then there was the Force flooding him– it had given him, was giving him the strength to –

"Anakin! Anakin saved me," he said with utter certainty. "Only he could - is he…okay?" He clutched at Yoda's arm, panic in his eyes.

"Yes, yes," Yoda soothed him, a frown wrinkling his brow. "The young one is fine. Your padawan, wish you not to know of him?"

Was the excruciating pain in his head interfering with his hearing?

Qui-Gon again furrowed his brow, trying to make sense out of Yoda's rather strange question coming as it had right after his answer. He tried again. "I asked you…Anakin…you said he was okay."

They were definitely on different wavelengths, for Yoda's ears curled as if now _he_ were confused. One of them, at least, was.

"Your padawan he is not. Of Obi-Wan, I speak. Saved you he did, poured all he had and more, not sparing himself though wounded too he was and now under the care of healers as well."

No, his padawan was nearby. He could feel the touch of his mind. Yoda was most definitely getting a bit senile.

"Please - may I see him? I need – to see him."

"Soon." He could tell that Yoda was trying to pacify him; it was that soothing and more often irritating voice. "Perhaps together you can be as both of you heal."

"No…Anakin," he shook his head. Why couldn't Yoda understand? "Want to see - Anakin…." His fingers closed spasmodically around Yoda's hand, trying to convey his need.

Yoda's ears curled; the wounded Jedi was far too preoccupied with a boy he had known but days. For a Jedi whose last memories were of battling a Sith, Obi-Wan at his side, he was showing a distinct lack of interest or concern in the boy he had trained for years, an apprentice's fate he had little reason to know other than Yoda's words. This was not the Qui-Gon Jinn he knew, whose pride in and affection for his padawan was plain to all who cared to notice.

"So you shall…when next you wake, hmm? More rest you need, rest, yes, yes, rest."

Yoda sat back, a claw meditatively scratching his chin as Qui-Gon closed his eyes, slipping back to sleep as urged.

There were currents and eddies disturbing the flow of the Force. Yoda pursed his lips. So many possibilities, so many futures and Naboo –or Tatooine - lay at the heart. What disturbed him most was the darkness entwined with the light, so unlike the last disturbance on this scale many years before.

Was this a portent of what was to come – the clash between two opposing forces that many would call "good and evil" and a Jedi would call "compassion and malevolence"?

Had the first blow just been struck?

One Sith had been defeated. Two good Jedi had been wounded, but both had survived, for which Yoda would be eternally grateful. One with the Force they may have become, and while he could accept, even rejoice for such a fate, he was glad that day had not yet come.

Had young Kenobi been the first sacrifice to the coming conflagration?

Yoda was deeply concerned about Qui-Gon's seeming lack of interest in his padawan's well-being. The Force itself had seemed to draw the two together once it had overcome a certain Jedi master's stubborn resistance after a previous and disastrous pairing, though the shadows of that past had taken some time to entirely dissipate.

Said Jedi master had been called on those consequences: Master Dooku had made plenty of acerbic – and truthful – comments to his padawan about the unwitting harm he was doing his apprentice with his apparent reluctance to fully commit to him. Dooku would have plenty to say now, Yoda thought, if he knew of Qui-Gon's renunciation of Obi-Wan. His blistering words would even make Mace wince.

Now, years later, those words of warning might seem prophetic. The young boy uncertain of his place had finally found that uncertainty justified as a young man near his knighting.

Though there had not been consensus the time was now, all knew it was fast approaching.

The master and the Council had deliberated several times as to the padawan's readiness for the trials.

Obi-Wan was still young, still impulsive and not yet completely in control of himself. In a mix of admiration and exasperation, some in Council had muttered he could blame an unconventional master for not sooner taming those traits. Immersion in the Living Force only exacerbated those tendencies.

The steady round of solitary missions they piled on the young man was meant as his final preparation, a chance to find his own connection to the two sides of the Force.

It had come as a total shock during the last Council mission briefing when Qui-Gon stated his intention of taking the young boy, Anakin, as his apprentice, and tried to justify it by stating Obi-Wan was ready for the trials. He had stated just the opposite only a few weeks before, though acknowledging the day was near.

Obi-Wan had _not_ been ready.

It was not his obvious anger and humiliation that had showed his lack of readiness as much as his inability to release the emotions – indeed he had not even thought to try to do such. Other than his immediate instinct to back his master by stepping forward and declaring his readiness, he had maintained his composure under difficult circumstances and managed to contain his raging emotions even before dismissal from Council.

Gifted in the Force the young man was, skilled in all areas. Perhaps this battle would prove to have been his final test, once either Jedi were in shape to speak of it, for to survive a fight with a Sith took extraordinary luck or a deep connection to the Force.

There was no such thing as luck to a Jedi. Only a providential nudge of the Force at the right time.

As to this so-called "Chosen One" of Qui-Gon's the Force said little, only whispered of dark potentials.

Was the danger in training the boy, or leaving him untrained? His eyes had flashed fire, but he _had_ obeyed the Jedi master's stern command to sit outside and be quiet if he wished to stay with Qui-Gon.

With the proper guidance, there was a chance, just a chance he could live up to his potential. As to whether he was, or was not the "Chosen One," he was certainly biologically capable of great power; if he could harness it, he would be one of the most powerful Jedi in centuries.

_Power alone does not make a great Jedi. Power comes from the heart and mind of a Jedi in balance._

An ancient Jedi saying that was, a whisper carried in the swirl of the Force more than two decades past, a whisper of a child yet to be born.

With a sigh, Yoda left Qui-Gon's side to check on Obi-Wan. He could not help but notice the defiant look on the young boy Anakin's face as he passed by, or his sudden rush into the room and his soft cry of "Master Qui-Gon, sir, you're awake" or Qui-Gon's sleepy and very content response.

Another sigh escaped Yoda as he stood in the doorway, for Obi-Wan looked almost as fragile as Qui-Gon. The absence of the cheery humor or serious thoughtfulness that added character was almost certainly the reason he looked so terribly young lying there as well.

The boy stood at the brink of knighthood, a worthy addition to the ranks and destined for great things, or so the Force had seemed to whisper. The path to greatness was strewn with obstacles large and small for greatness did not come without cost. Missteps and heartache, Obi-Wan had endured them all.

Along the way he had healed a cynical Jedi master's heart and proved a worthy companion, a student worthy of the master and certain to exceed him someday; perhaps even to stand among the pantheon of notable Jedi whose legends outlived their lives.

Pain was the catalyst, some said, to greatness. Luck, said others. Talent, a few. Yoda knew better. Greatness was earned, slow step by slow step, won with hard work and dedication. All were capable of greatness; few achieved it.

Greatness was only known after the fact and was not a destination, but a journey. Had Obi-Wan's been cut short?

Apparently not if Mace Windu had any say about it. Stern and unyielding Jedi master, he radiated concern and worry through the Force no matter how impossible to detect with mere eyes.

"How is the young one, any changes?"

Mace turned from his perusal of the scene outside the window and glanced at the sleeping padawan. "Weak, as before. I don't know how he kept going so long. This boy has real strength – and stubborn determination. What of Qui-Gon, has he awoken?"

Yoda leaned on his gimer stick and nodded.

"Wished only to see the boy…of Obi-Wan he showed no regard…certain now I am that this severance of the bond was caused by the master."

Mace blinked, the only sign of his disbelief. "What would make Qui-Gon do this to Obi-Wan? You don't think he…that Qui-Gon thought…dear Force, we need to talk to them and find out just what happened during that fight, or if something happened on the way here. I don't understand this and I most certainly do not like it. The damage…."

"Permanent it might be. At best – things have changed. Never the same again. The future has shifted and for the best I think not. Dark times ahead there are. For this one as well as the Jedi."

"At least he has a future."

Yoda blinked and closed his eyes. He suddenly felt every year of his nearly nine hundred.

"Obi-Wan, he is strong…the Jedi of whom I spoke – lived long he did not. Too much damage to his mind there was – found a way to die, he did. Wanted peace and sanity, found it he did by returning home to the Force."


	8. In Pursuit of Answers

**Chapter 8. In Pursuit of Answers**

"Anything?"

"Nothing that sheds light; for answers we must still seek."

Mace and Yoda split their time, keeping vigil at the medical center and interviewing all involved, however peripheral that involvement had been.

The Force was as silent as the witnesses were voluble, neither providing any useful information. Any explanation as to what had actually transpired between the two Jedi could only come from the actual participants to the battle and its aftermath, the explanation yet locked in silence.

It was more coincidence than planning that had Mace primarily in charge of communicating with the Council and spending time at the bedside of the two injured Jedi while Yoda spent the bulk of his time gathering information and enlightenment from the Force.

Or so Mace claimed.

Dealing with Jar Jar Binks and the Gungans had strained the Jedi master's patience; his normally dour expression a glower.

"Bombad fiercesomeness," Jar Jar had wailed to Boss Nass after one of Mace's trying attempts to ascertain how he had perceived the interactions between the two Jedi and "little Ani." "Meesa prefer tiny green one wit da big ears."

Within earshot, Mace had actually gone so far as to grin – internally. He would be happy to cooperate: he would let Yoda deal with the infernal racket of a screeching semi-aquatic creature - his ears were less sensitive to the screeches – those ears no doubt diffused some of the frequency waves over a larger area thus diminishing the impact. True or not, it was a handy rationalization that served his purpose.

After some time it was quickly decided to have the entire Council - along with a Jedi healer – come to Naboo, as neither Jedi was yet in shape to travel to the Temple.

The demands of a severely wounded body kept Qui-Gon asleep for hours at a time, his time awake brief and usually when Anakin was at his side. Obi-Wan lay huddled within misery, body wracked with occasional tremors whether awake or asleep. Fatigue and shock had silenced the usually dry-witted padawan other than for soft whimpers that escaped too-taut lips.

Why?

"Why, Obi-Wan?" Mace sat at Obi-Wan's bedside after some time spent at Qui-Gon's. He studied the bruised skin around his closed eyes, the flexing of his fingers that nearly always predicated the onslaught of some sort of muscular contractions.

Why was Obi-Wan plagued with physical spasms from a broken bond?

Why was the bond severed so violently at all, and by whom? Why had a padawan with little training in healing been able to keep alive one who had been fatally wounded, or nearly so?

Why, why, why. Why?

Too many questions had too few answers. Clearly, past decisions had to be made or revisited, perhaps reversed. Yoda and Mace would not take the responsibility on themselves – too much was at stake.

Anakin Skywalker – should their decision stand not to train him?

No one, not one, denied he _had_ been instrumental in the battle. The destruction of the droid control ship had been one of two pivotal points in the successful assault to regain control, the other being the Queen's capture of Nute Gunray.

If Anakin's success was not just luck, not just a random coincidence of providential events, it had to be conceded, however reluctantly, that a nine-year-old child had had enough of a connection to the Force to allow it such access to his actions. Few, if any, Jedi initiates trained almost since birth would be capable of such. In recent years only one gifted child, one padawan had shown such promise – and he had been Qui-Gon's padawan as well.

Proof that Anakin Skywalker was the "Chosen One" none of this was. Deny the possibility they had misheard the Force the Order could not.

A child of such potential clearly needed to be nurtured and protected.

And trained. Trained to hold steadfast to a moral framework where power was a means to the Force's will rather than a goal in and of itself.

If nothing else, perhaps this was what the Force intended all along, enlisting Qui-Gon Jinn as its proxy. If so, the Jedi master had interpreted and acted on the Force's will in the most inhumane way possible: public renunciation of his existing padawan and worse, severance of the bond.

Other, gentler means had been possible.

There were ways to dissolve a master/padawan relationship, should a relationship irretrievably break down. It required Council approval and was never undertaken lightly. Only Yoda, of the current Council, recalled such an event. Masters chose padawans after long and deep deliberation; the padawan was expected to do the same before committing to the master.

"Umph, ah…," a strangled intake of breath brought Mace's attention back to the bedside. "I know it hurts, Obi-Wan, I know." Under his gentle kneading, the tightly clenched fists gradually loosened.

With a final pat, Mace held the now limp hands within his and scowled as he glanced upwards and demanded, "Why didn't you thump Qui-Gon on the head to keep him from blind-siding his padawan that day? It wasn't fair to him or the boy. You really should have told him to prepare his padawan to be jettisoned or at least take a time-out to explain himself before this entire mess happened – and yes, if you'd have warned _me_ ahead of time, I'd have held his mouth shut with your help before he spouted off like that."

Almost as if chastened at the lecture, the Force settled around the exhausted and sweat-soaked padawan as the attack lessened.

"Damaged nerves overly stimulated," the healers had offered, with a shrug that told Mace they were not fully confident of the diagnosis. They had never dealt with a Jedi and the Force. What the trigger was, they could not say.

Mace couldn't bring himself to fault them. As yet no one knew exactly what, or how, the padawan had channeled enough healing energy into his master to preserve his life. How, or if, that action had interacted with the trauma of the severed bond was yet unknown.

"Always with this one, he finds a way to give what another needs," Yoda had once explained. "Should the Force have a need, he would no doubt find a way to alter a planet in orbit. Need is his greatest catalyst, not knowledge and training alone."

They had been conducting their annual review of the padawans. In some ways Obi-Wan lagged behind his age mates, in other ways he was ahead of them. Pressed for an explanation, Yoda merely stated the boy had potential none yet realized.

"Felt, have you, the way the Force enfolds and caresses him since an infant, even more so than many others? Tells me it does that here is one to watch and guide carefully."

It was one reason so many obstacles had been put in his path, or so Yoda had been convinced. Obstacles to overcome, to develop strength of will, to test the boy for what was to come, but to what end – Yoda did not know. Nor did Mace know when that conviction had been shared with him alone.

If it was true that Obi-Wan was destined for great things – if – had that destiny been thwarted at last? This latest obstacle seemed insurmountable.

"Shh, Obi-Wan, sleep, you really need to sleep." It was best he sleep for at least a day the Jedi healer had recommended from afar. "His body and mind both are exhausted. He needs to rest before you start grilling him – go easy on him, Mace."

The little troll had only chuckled when he heard the admonition. Mace wondered if they all thought he was an uncaring man, or if some of them just liked to tweak him about something he cared to keep well hidden.

He really wasn't an ogre, no matter appearances.

Mace stood facing out the window, eyes closed, deep in thought when he heard a slight rustle behind him from the bed. He at first ignored it, for Obi-Wan had been barely coherent those times he had been awake.

"M…master?" Obi-Wan's voice wobbled, his eyes opened barely a crack.

"Yes," Mace answered without thinking, quickly coming to his side.

"N…no," the young man moaned, weakly raising a hand to his head.

Mace caught the trembling hands within his. Of course, Obi-Wan had thought he was _his_ master, Qui-Gon. He tried to sound reassuring. "No, Obi-Wan. It's Mace. Qui-Gon is recovering in another room, but he'll survive."

"G…good. Why…why does my head hurt so bad? He – he – oh, Force," and the young man collapsed upon his pillow, fighting to restrain tears. "He cast me off…he did this to me, _why_ did he do this?"

Obi-Wan's reaction rather alarmed Mace. He could see the tears the young man tried to hide and felt the alarm and fear coursing through him. The padawan usually did a far better job of controlling his emotions. This was not fear for his master's life; Mace had already assured him that Qui-Gon was alive and recovering. This was something else entirely, but what?

"Who did what? What did he do, Obi-Wan?" He spoke softly, calmly. The young man was already agitated.

Obi-Wan shivered and in a voice suddenly bereft of all emotion he said, "He broke the bond and called me…dead to him." This time, the tears escaped and trickled down his cheeks. "I failed him, but I never knew the price of failure was so high."

"What do you mean, 'the price of failure'? You saved his life." Prickles of dread were creeping up Mace's spine.

"He blinded me."

"What!" Mace frantically searched his mind; hadn't Obi-Wan looked at him, responded to more than just his voice?

"He took the Force from me. It's gone, and it's like being blind."

Mace dropped into a chair, staring at Obi-Wan. He had trouble forming words. "Qui-Gon – he what? You said yourself your head hurts – I'm sure you're mixed up, confused. You need to sleep and we'll straighten all this out when you're feeling better. Sleep, Obi-Wan." He tried to press a sleep suggestion into the young man, but Obi-Wan rolled his head aside, eyes pleading with Mace to understand.

"It hurts worse…when I sleep. I don't, I don't understand."

It was true the unconscious mind did not shield well. No doubt Obi-Wan was correct, but he needed rest, too, but just as certainly the Council needed answers and Obi-Wan seemed to need to talk. With access to Obi-Wan's memories, perhaps Mace could understand what had happened and help the young Jedi make sense of his experiences and find some relief that way.

Hesitantly, Mace asked, "Would it help you to let me see what happened? Perhaps I can reassure you, once I -."

"It won't help," Obi-Wan said, biting his lip. "But you need to know…all right. Just find the memories and then please just – leave me alone."

"We'll do what's best for you, Obi-Wan," Mace soothed. "If that means giving you some time alone, fine. Are you sure you feel up to this?"

"No," he admitted. "But I never will, Master Windu. Better to…get it over…over with." He curled his fingers tightly trying to stop the trembling, this time from trepidation.

Mace nodded and placed his hands on the young man's temples. He frowned; there were no Force shields protecting the mind, just rudimentary ones any human could erect. Gently he let his Force senses become attuned to the Jedi's mind, although a small part of him watched through human eyes as Obi-Wan lay passively and almost unaware of another presence within his memories, though he shuddered ever so slightly.

"Are you okay? Are you aware of me?" he sent a tendril of thought. It drifted off, to fade away. He spoke the words aloud, and Obi-Wan blinked, a fleeting look of dread crossing his features.

"I don't feel you…I don't…it's all gone, isn't it?"

"It's – not present, at the moment," Mace hurried to reassure him. "I'm accessing your memories now, okay? I'm watching what enfolded, but not intruding any further than I need."

He kept a part of his focus on Obi-Wan's face; it had to be vastly disturbing to a Jedi to have another probe his mind, knowing it was being done and yet totally unable to sense it. A Jedi was trained to resist this unless he consciously allowed it.

By this level of training Obi-Wan had a greater reliance on the Force than ever, and on a deeper and less conscious level than when he was younger and trying to learn how to connect to it at will. Mace could not imagine how utterly disturbing and disorienting the experience must be.

It was easy under the circumstances to use a mind suggestion on Obi-Wan without his notice, to put him in a state of consciousness similar to hypnosis, and have the young Jedi recount everything that had happened in the way he had been taught since young – objectively, thoroughly, and without emotion as Mace "watched" the same events unfold.

The battle – the ebb and flow of the fight. Moving from one vast room into another – into a mist-filled tunnel – the fall of Qui-Gon Jinn. Obi-Wan's fight, fall into the pit – Mace widened his search a bit then, seeking to understand what allowed Obi-Wan to conquer fear and rage in order to save himself – the leap, the swing, and the jump across the room to his fallen master's side.

Mace recoiled as the slap seemed to bruise his own cheek. He lingered for just a moment, not wanting to intrude, only long enough to sense Obi-Wan's own confusion and understand what mental state the young man was in, and then he disengaged from his mind and released the young man from his trance-like state.

"So brave, Obi-Wan," he murmured. "I don't see any error on your part. Qui-Gon must have been confused to speak so. It shall be okay."

"No, I don't think so," Obi-Wan said, his voice soft. He raised a hand to his head and rubbed it. "I'm very tired, Master Windu. I think – I think I want to sleep now." He slid down into the bed and closed his eyes.

It wasn't until Mace left that Obi-Wan's tears finally found release.


	9. Out With the Old In With the New

**Chapter 9. Out with the Old, In with the New**

Mace Windu was a troubled man. Not only had he seen Obi-Wan's version of the battle, but he had glimpsed other things the Force had kept hidden from all the Jedi, except, perhaps, Yoda.

Was his interpretation correct?

In the next moment he forgot what he had seen, for he had seen instead a few tears slip from the Jedi's eyes. His step faltered; should he acknowledge them?

No, Obi-Wan was already emotionally vulnerable. To be seen crying would only reinforce those feelings of personal weakness he had fought past years ago. Seemingly defeated and forgotten, they were now resurfacing. Obi-Wan had to first face them, before anyone could even try to help him deal with them.

Or so Mace hoped.

With a last look at Obi-Wan, Mace left the now sleeping Jedi and entered Qui-Gon's room where Yoda sat, a frown of concentration on his face. His ears swiveled as Mace entered, though he kept his eyes on Qui-Gon.

"Troubled you are."

_Oh, really? Aren't we both?_ Mace restrained his response, settling down in the spare chair and gathering his thoughts.

"Obi-Wan woke. He was a bit agitated and he seemed to need to speak, so healers orders or not, I allowed him. I must admit I'm baffled by what transpired," he said softly. "The two of them got separated during the battle, and for some reason Qui-Gon is blaming his padawan – to the point of shunning him. I just don't understand. Obi-Wan is just as confused as I am, and blaming himself, too."

He told Obi-Wan's story in plain and sparse words. When he was done, Yoda sat quietly, ears curling even more disconsolately.

"Hmm," he finally pronounced, and turned to look at Mace. "Blame there is none. Perhaps the damage to the padawan's mind affected his memory. Wait until Qui-Gon speaks of what happened we should. Talk to young Skywalker we should, too, interesting tale that should be. With the Queen and her entourage he is. With her he is happy and out of the way as well."

Mace grimaced. "The Hero of Naboo," he said darkly, and when Yoda didn't react, elaborated. "Word is he saved the Naboo practically all by himself – the Gungans and Naboo both. I wonder what he would have done should he have faced the Sith, had he slain both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan beforehand?"

"A boy, himself?" Yoda squeezed his eyes shut. "Taken by the Sith, I fear, and one of them become."

Mace frowned. That already angry little boy? He didn't like the sound of that. At all.

It was dark. He remembered falling…falling into darkness, thinking never to wake again. Had he, once? The memory was vague and elusive, if so.

The reason became clear as Qui-Gon tried to shift in bed. Underneath the pleasant sense of drifting was a sharp-edged knife of pain, sharp and yet throbbing at the same time. It radiated throughout his entire body, mind and torso both.

A teeny chuckle, nearly a giggle, escaped him at the thought – two centers of pain – how unique, yet the brain was connected to the head which was connected to the body by this thing called a neck…whoa! Something was very wrong. He felt like he'd drunk ten Corellian whiskeys, his thoughts and muscles uncooperative. This was…was, _oh dear_ – last time he had felt this combination of exaltation and sluggishness was in the healers ward.

He struggled to surface above the drug-induced fog, to wake and seek answers. His eyes shifted sideways, expecting to see his padawan and it took a moment to register his absence. Where was his padawan? He always expected to find Obi-Wan at his side unless he himself were hurt. He sent his awareness questing and found his mind recoiling for he found only murkiness where there once was a bright warm presence.

"Wh…at?" he gasped, and immediately someone was at his side, urging him to lie back and calm himself. "No…no – my padawan?"

Yoda's face swam into his view. Qui-Gon wasn't sure he was hearing him correctly. _"Obi-Wan?"_ He nodded weakly, of course Obi-Wan. Who else?

To his total consternation, Mace's face came into view over Yoda's head. "We wondered," he said sardonically.

He was in an alternate universe; that was it. What was happening? They acted like Obi-Wan – oh, Force. He must have been dreaming that Obi-Wan had come to his side as he lay dying. Obi-Wan was dead. The Sith had killed him, why else did accessing the bond hurt so much?

"He's…dead?" He grasped Yoda's arm with all his strength, hoping for a denial, a shred of hope, a reason to go on.

"Alive he is, in better shape than you physically," Yoda answered, and Mace chimed in, "He's in pretty bad shape otherwise. Do you remember what happened – the fight, anything?"

Concentrating on those memories helped clear the cobwebs from his mind.

"The fight – yes. Obi-Wan and I battled the Sith into another room off the hangar and we – Obi-Wan was knocked off the walkway. He fell and I fought on, alone, into still another room. Obi-Wan couldn't – didn't join me and I – hell, I was skewered!" Qui-Gon looked down at his chest expecting to see a lightsaber piercing it; the memory was so fresh and vivid in his mind. "I don't remember much else. You said Obi-Wan survived – how? Injured how badly?"

The two Council members looked at each other as if debating what to tell Qui-Gon. Force, it was bad if they hesitated. Obi-Wan must be dying…or paralyzed…or something horrible and he couldn't go to his side, to Obi-Wan's side.

Tears sprang to his eyes.

He tried to cast out into the Force once more and this time sensed – ah, yes - him. He was coming…he was on his way.

Before any of them could say anything, the door burst open and a blur of boy under a crown of sandy hair hurtled in and threw himself at the wounded Jedi.

"Qui-Gon, sir, you're awake again!"

"Ani! You're safe!" Qui-Gon struggled to sit upright as the boy dropped to hug him. A heavy weight seemed to lift from his heart. His padawan was not hurt. "Oh, thank the Force you're all right, safe." His full attention was now centered on the boy, his unanswered questions about Obi-Wan forgotten.

Mace cleared his throat. "Qui – you wanted to know about Obi-Wan -."

"Not now, Mace," Qui-Gon interrupted him, just as Anakin spoke up, lower lip thrust out.

"Him? Who cares about him? He didn't protect Qui-Gon. I would have, if I'd been there. He's no good, Master Qui-Gon. We both know he doesn't deserve to be your padawan. What good is he anyway if he can't protect you! He shouldn't even be a Jedi."

"Young Skywalker!" Yoda protested, his shock obvious. "The padawan he saved the master's life at high cost to himself."

"Only 'cuz he endangered it in the first place," the boy shot back, as Qui-Gon nodded in sad agreement. The boy spoke the Force's truth, this child of the Force.

"You're so much more than he'll ever be," Qui-Gon whispered huskily, tousling the boy's hair.

Yoda was scandalized. "This talk stop at once!" he demanded. "Master Qui-Gon, shocked at you I am. Your padawan," and he emphasized the last two words, "he slew the Sith and saved your life he did. Disturbing I find your behavior. Ill, his mind wrenched apart because you broke your bond."

There was such sadness, such heartbreak in Yoda's _"broke."_ The implication was clear: the bond had been shattered. A dissolution in the most destructive way possible, traumatic to both parties if both survived the cause of the rupture, for the death of one was usually the precipitating cause.

Now Qui-Gon understood why his mind hurt so much more than his midsection, for painkillers were only mildly effective against such trauma.

There were safeguards normally in place, set to trigger shields so that the death of either the master or padawan did not all but destroy the other's mind, even if the death came without warning or preparation.

Why would Obi-Wan do such a thing, risk such pain to them both over mere petulance and jealousy? _He_ would never do something that cruel; obviously his former padawan still harbored deep resentment against both him and young Anakin and had retaliated in a childish and most un-Jedi-like manner by accusing him of such actions.

He only recognized his former padawan's character now, placed in contrast to the young boy from Tatooine. Regardless of how he could have so misread Obi-Wan's character, it was something to ponder at another time; for now, it meant only one thing.

He beamed as he reached for Anakin's hand and patted it.

"Anakin, I'm now free to take you as a padawan as it appears I have none, should you still wish to be trained by me."

Anakin's squeal of delight drowned out Mace's protest and Yoda's cane thumping.

Delight and outrage surged outwards, a cresting wave in the Force.

In the room next door, the sleeping Jedi wept.


	10. Past and Present

**Note to readers: **I do not like as a rule author's notes regarding how the author believes the story isn't very good, or well polished, or whatever. Don't call attention to its flaws, in other words, since all stories have them.

I must say, however, one reason for the delay in updating here is a certain trepidation/unease that I got carried away and that the story needs a good overhaul/pruning. Alas - I have not the energy to undertake such a task, and the story is far more advanced on another site.

So instead I'll thank those who like my rambling style enough to read, and read some more.

**

* * *

****Chapter 10. Past and Present**

Jinn and Kenobi: fallen on Naboo.

That was the second of two rumors.

Rumors were largely speculation built upon a kernel of truth. None knew that better than Jedi. So when rumors circulated that Padawan Kenobi had been disowned by his master and left the Order in disgrace, none truly believed it. What the kernel of truth in that rumor was, however, ripe for speculation.

Thoughtfully – for they were never malicious – Jedi discussed and analyzed and sought explanations.

It was a known fact that Jinn and Kenobi had returned from Naboo after being ambushed – sidetracked to a far rim planet – and returned with both the Queen of Naboo and a small boy that had caught Master Jinn's fancy.

It was a known fact that all three had been together before the Council and that all three had left together – not a one of them looking pleased.

It was a known fact that Jinn and Kenobi – and the boy – had left once more for Naboo, escorting the Queen back home after her appeal to the Senate.

Equally as mystified as to the first rumor's core truth were Kenobi's close friends.

Upon his return, Obi-Wan had sought his friends out to unwind, explaining with a soft laugh that his master was somewhat preoccupied with his latest "find." All had assumed he meant the boy; none had asked. Qui-Gon's fancies and enthusiasms were taken in stride by all who knew the Jedi master - as long it didn't sting, bite, or scratch.

He had been relaxed and at ease as he dutifully spun out his story, his "all too routine" mission. His ever so casual mention of the "poisoning incident" was so droll that each of them hiccupped with laughter as Obi-Wan pantomimed holding his breath with attendant facial expressions.

"We fought our way to the ship's control room, taking out droid after droid. I picked off the last few as Qui-Gon did his best to melt his way through the doors." He paused for dramatic effect, or so they had first thought, for after a moment's silence and twirling of his drink in his hand, he had added, "Then two droidekas showed up."

His friends were all dutifully impressed, waiting for the grand pronouncement of their fate – something highly entertaining, no doubt. Obi-Wan only grimaced and solemnly looked at them, setting his drink on the table. "And then we, er, cut and ran."

They all had waited for the joke, but he had offered nothing more; his very silence had prompted them to prod him for more details. Predictably, it had been Garen who first spoke.

"You let them run you off?" He guffawed.

Obi-Wan had known he was dropping a bombshell. He had merely nodded and offered dryly, "They had shield generators."

That had put a bit of a damper on the conversation: no wonder the two Jedi had decided to end the battle. Shielded droidekas were unheard of.

"So much had already gone wrong on this mission that prudence dictated we find a way to communicate with the Council. So we split up and stowed away on the invasion craft."

In a clear attempt to reestablish the light mood that had evaporated, Obi-Wan downed his drink, grinned, and embarked on an elaborate and highly unlikely story of how he had snuck aboard a droid transport and cut loose once on the planet. By the time he had sheepishly relayed how he had once more shorted out his lightsaber in the Naboo swamps and had had to resort to a lot of running and dodging to gain his master's side, they had all been smiling again.

Garen had hooted with laughter at Obi-Wan's embarrassment: this was not the first time he had made such an error.

Bant had first giggled, then quite properly chided Obi-Wan for his inattention despite his protestations that he had had to dive rather precipitously into the water; Obi-Wan had flushed just as he had when Qui-Gon had lectured him on the same.

He had flushed even brighter at Garen's dig in the ribs when he had been describing the endless wait on Tatooine, for the first thing Garen had picked up on was that Obi-Wan had been cooped up with three very bored young women and had had some very pointed questions on how he spent his leisure since Siri and her master were still away on a mission that had already lasted a few months.

Picking up on Obi-Wan's discomfort, Bant had smacked Garen in the arm and changed the subject. No matter what Garen thought, Siri and Obi-Wan had never been more than friends, even if once years past they might – just might – have contemplated more.

The next contact they'd had with him was his quick com call to cancel plans – he was returning to Naboo. Obi-Wan had sounded grim and had been rather subdued. When pressed if he was okay – he had looked tired and dispirited – he had rubbed a couple of fingers over his temple and admitted he was not at his best.

Rumor shortly after had it that Qui-Gon had taken the boy as his new apprentice – that Obi-Wan had been set aside in favor of this unknown child.

Now a new rumor had reached the Temple.

After Masters Yoda and Windu had left for Naboo in a hurry, the entire Council and a healer had departed as well. Jinn and Kenobi had fallen in defense of Naboo's Queen.

Whether either or both lived was the speculation.

_You still have much to learn…he is capable…I need you, Padawan…your fault, your failure…my padawan no more._

The padawan whimpered in his sleep. His damaged mind reached for the Force but felt nothing. He was cast adrift in a vast sea of uncertainty and pain; no anchor, no rudder, no oars – tossed upon the heaving waves.

Though normally unaffected by motion, seasickness struck with a vengeance.

Vaguely he was aware of a damp cloth wiping his mouth clean, a hand griping his, even a soft murmur in his ears.

A spear of lightning crashed into his mind and he jerked with the shock of it, trembled with the thunderclap that followed. Lightning, thunder, rain…the storm pounded him but there was no shelter in this sea, nothing to shield him.

Nothing.

"Shh, Obi-Wan." Mace sighed and patted the padawan's mouth once more. He kept trying to vomit, but seemed to have little to rid himself of. Every so often he would screw his eyes shut and moan, weathering another attack of some kind. Mace had no doubt this was an effect of the torn bond, for the Naboo healer had already run enough tests to confirm it was not a purely physical reaction.

Mace had seen plenty of pain and suffering in his years. All Jedi did. He had thought himself inured to it, but this – this was so needless, and inflicted by one of their own on one of their own – or so it seemed all but certain.

He made up his mind.

There were times some aspects of the Code just had to be ignored and this was one. He didn't have Obi-Wan's permission, but he could not stand to see the boy in such pain and had little doubt a conscious Obi-Wan would not object.

As he had earlier, Mace attuned his mind to Obi-Wan's so that he could enter it and erect a Force barrier, his destination seen as a pulsating void sparking with brilliant actinic splashes of vivid color, a shimmering curtain of frenzied energy that hid what lay beyond. This was not just unexpected – it was, in fact, unheard of. Bonds were usually sensed more as bright tunnels while they existed, only to fade to non-existence after a peaceful dissolution

Like a warm blanket over a chilled body, Mace smoothed a cool velvet drape into place and anchored it with mental strands meant to last but a short while, then watched, one hand resting on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Gradually, Obi-Wan's breathing became calmer and the flickers of distress on his face began to ease.

"That's good, Obi-Wan. Breathe easy now, son."

It had been a long time since Mace had sat by an ill padawan, a very long time. He hadn't liked it then and he didn't like it now. He didn't like to think of any of the Jedi as vulnerable, just as prey to illness and injury as any other living being.

He wiped a thumb under Obi-Wan's eyes, wiping away moisture.

Force, how he hated this.

Halfway across Theed young Anakin Skywalker was beaming. As a reward for his part in the battle, Padmé had told him he could join her entourage as she toured the emptying camps and visited those rebuilding Naboo.

The boy who longed for appreciation, hungered for affection, lived for adulation from someone besides his mother basked in her smile, the cheers of the Naboo they visited. The slave boy would yet prove a hero: punish the wicked and reward the kind. He had seen his path to glory with one look into Qui-Gon Jinn's mind.

Nothing – and no one – would be allowed to stand in his way.

A part of Qui-Gon's mind knew these images were different – no longer of red mist or horns, nor of eternal oneness in peace.

These images were of life, not death.

Images tumbled one after the other – faces – smiles – frowns. There was no need for them to make sense, for the story they told was the story of the people central in his life.

Always it came back to one: a smooth cheeked face with laughing eyes…shocked eyes… pained eyes…fading to dullness…then fading, fading away entirely.

_How strange_.

As the images faded, light slowly seeped through his eyelids, prompting him to awareness. A dull pain…yes, that was his wound, healing. A soft rustle, ah, someone at his side.

Too small, too moist, too few fingers…if one considered clawed digits fingers. Yoda. Again, Yoda.

His eyes opened and he let them roam around the room; let them reacquaint him with his surroundings. Hospital, yes – on Naboo, yes. At his side, where Obi-Wan should be – sat Yoda, with Mace standing over at the window.

But no Obi-Wan.

His brow creased. _Obi-Wan, yes…hurt, too_, he vaguely remembered.

"Awake you are – wish something to drink, hum?" A small green hand brought a glass of water to his lips.

He sipped gratefully. The liquid felt cool and refreshing, reviving his parched throat.

"Obi-Wan…when can I see Obi-Wan?" He let his hand rest on Yoda's.

Yoda blinked and gently moved the glass to the bedside table. "Resting he is."

"That's not a real answer. You said before he wasn't badly hurt…?" He rubbed his throbbing head. "I want to see him."

The two Jedi remained silent. They didn't want him to see Obi-Wan, or Obi-Wan to see him!

There had been some silly talk once before – about the bond. Damaged, hadn't they said? That explained the headache, but Force, it was going to get a lot worse if he didn't get some answers shortly.

Between the drugs and what all, he no longer knew what was real or what was dreams. Obi-Wan probably knew…the boy always knew. That's what the dreams were telling him. Together, they would sort it out as they always had, unless the Sith had done more damage to Obi-Wan than Yoda let on. It was so blurry…all so blurry.

He glanced at Mace. Despite all their differences, despite all their arguments – and how both loved a good argument over a glass of Corellian whiskey – they had been friends for decades. Of all people, Mace would understand.

"Mace, please. I need to see him, see that he will be fine. He's been at my side for over ten years, why keep us separated unless he's far more injured than you're telling me?"

Mace and Yoda exchanged glances. This sounded like the Qui-Gon they knew of old, fretting over his padawan. Normally it was all but impossible to keep the Jedi master and his padawan apart when one or both were in the healers, unless pure medical need intervened.

Times like this were the times Mace was glad he had no hair, otherwise he'd be pulling it out right about now.

"Qui, I'm not sure either of you is up to this right now." He didn't know whether to laugh or slap his old friend next. "Your Force suggestion will not work on me you old man. I'm no more weak-minded than you."

He sighed. He really didn't know what was going on, but he could feel the sincerity in Qui-Gon's beseeching gaze. Maybe the Sith had twisted Obi-Wan's memories, maybe drugs and concern for a child had clouded Qui-Gon's first return to consciousness.

He had no right to pass judgment, not yet, anyway.

Yoda gazed silently at both Jedi, offering no cues. Despite his fondness for the boy, the old master had deemed Mace to be in the best position to decide how to approach Obi-Wan.

"He has been in a lot of pain, but I suppose if the healers agree and he feels up to it ..."

It would have to be Obi-Wan's decision, but in his heart, Mace wasn't so sure the boy was ready yet to face Qui-Gon.

Since the Force barrier had been erected a day before, Obi-Wan was calmer, no longer in such awful psychic pain, the kind that twisted his gut and upset his equilibrium. He seemed, if anything, resigned and fatalistic, all but silent; he had been willing to listen when Mace spoke, but he had never once asked about his master or the boy.

There was no doubt in the Jedi master's mind that Obi-Wan was trying in his own way to come to terms with all that had happened. Was he ready to be in the presence of the man at least partially responsible for his mental trauma?

Obi-Wan had never yet flinched from his demons.

Until now, most of Obi-Wan's demons had been internal, self-created ones: insecurity, anger in his younger years, a need to achieve perfection, a reaction to external stimuli and first manifest in his middle initiate years.

He had learned how to name them, and in so doing, disarm them. He would never be free of them, but he would no longer be controlled by them.

In part because of his demons, he was one of the most forgiving people Mace had the privilege of knowing. Though he saw the flaws of others, he saw his own as well. To accept his own, he had to accept them in others and to forgive himself, he had to forgive others.

This made it impossible for the young man to hold a grudge or to seek retaliation. If anything, he held onto guilt, for his pain turned inwards, always, not outwards.

"I'll see if he feels up to a visit." The flare of hope in Qui-Gon's eyes didn't make Mace feel any better. Something told him this was not a good idea, not now, at least, but it was not his decision to make. It therefore came as no surprise when Obi-Wan passed a hand over his eyes, then nodded his agreement.

If Qui-Gon wished to see him, he would oblige.

Wearily, as if the weight of the galaxy were upon his shoulders, he slid out of bed and into slippers, took a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders. Only his white face betrayed him. He would do as Qui-Gon wished, but he wasn't looking forward to it.

Mace didn't blame him.

Things were shifting in the Force, shifting back. The call went out – and a young boy went on alert.

"I think Master Qui-Gon needs me," he announced, and took off running, a guardsman in pursuit.

Slow steps brought Qui-Gon's eyes to the open doorway, to see Obi-Wan pausing there as if reluctant to enter.

"Master Jinn." He stood there, neither advancing nor retreating, clutching his robe with his fingertips, Mace behind him. "Master Windu said…how are you feeling?"

He supposed he felt much like Obi-Wan looked. Pain had edged lines in both their faces; he felt it in his bones as he saw it in the young man before him. What each had survived, each could recover from.

"Not bad, considering."

He looked at Mace, silently asking with his eyes that he leave just as Yoda had, let them have their privacy. Mace merely crossed his arms and scowled. His only concession was to move to the window and turn his back. Clearly, it was all he would give Qui-Gon, who had not the strength to argue. He switched his attention back to his padawan, the man who had been his companion for so many years.

"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon smiled and beckoned him forward and to a seat. His eyes searched the boy's face. No, not a boy; not anymore. Pain and grief had aged him.

He fumbled for words, suddenly at a loss as he remembered at least part of that scene in Council – setting aside one padawan, Obi-Wan, for another, the "Chosen One." It had been what the Force had demanded of him, but he had not handled that well, he was beginning to realize.

A gulf of misunderstanding and ill chosen words had opened between them. He saw it only now, in Obi-Wan's eyes and his stance. He had been so righteous in his indignation and frustration that he had not seen it until now, and Obi-Wan had been just as blind, unable to see the Force's hand guiding them all.

Now, after so many years, it felt like they were two strangers, awkward and uncertain in each other's presence. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan."

There was no better way to put the past behind them, to start afresh. _I am sorry_. Three magical words, just like _I forgive you_.

And there was so much to be sorry for – all the ravages of the recent events that were coming back to him. It was as if in trying to save his life, Obi-Wan had poured far too much of himself into Qui-Gon. The once bright presence in the Force was weak, so diminished now.

"I still want to take this, you know." Qui-Gon fumbled to touch the braid; tried to smile past the lump in his throat.

"No," Obi-Wan whispered, eyes suddenly gray as he scooted back, out of reach. "I'm sorry, but you've forfeited that right."

His words, even the movement away, was like a slap in the face. "Obi-Wan!"

"You're not my master! Remember?" Obi-Wan stood up and almost backed away, stopped only by the bulk of Mace Windu who had suddenly materialized behind him.

"Padawan! Mind your manners."

"I. Am. .Padawan." The words were very precise. "I don't know what I am anymore, but _you_ chose that I not be your padawan. Your choice, yours alone. Remember what you always kept drilling into me – make a decision and stick by it? Well, you made your decision, Master. It's done."

Obi-Wan's outburst shocked Qui-Gon; this behavior was out of character and out of line both. It did not show proper respect and was spoken – like a petulant boy, not a Jedi padawan.

"Not another word, Qui-Gon," Mace warned, grasping Obi-Wan's arm as if fearing the young Jedi was about to collapse. "He's right…."

The planned reprimand died on Qui-Gon's lips. He _was _right, at least in part, at least for now. Sometimes the truth did hurt and Obi-Wan's words were the truth, for the memory was even now knocking at his mind – he could feel it, pounding away behind his skull.

But some things were even worse than truth. He had seen it with his own eyes.

Obi-Wan had never flinched away from him before. He now stood, hands clenched into fists at his sides and eyes down-turned. He had spoken his truth as he saw it, as Qui-Gon himself had taught him. He wasn't startled, or angry, or even upset. He was hurt and lost. Lost…and it was Mace he now turned to. Not Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon bit his lip and slowly nodded. It was done; they were done.

"I know."

It had all started there in the Council chamber, but even then, all might not have been lost. He had owed Obi-Wan an explanation and had given him nothing but anger – anger really directed at the Council, but anger more easily sent at his padawan. Obi-Wan would have understood, in time, had his master spoken to him how the Force had guided him to Anakin, not away from Obi-Wan.

They might have parted on far different terms.

It really was too late; now that he had finally realized his share of the error - far too late. They might build a bridge of reconciliation between them, someday, but they could never rebuild the one that was lost. It was shattered and irretrievably lost.

He swallowed hard. "I hope someday…."

There was a swirl of some unnamed emotion in those changeable eyes – one that often signified a softening of an unyielding stance into understanding. A dulcet "forgive me" would accompany a step forward as the boy would sink to his side and bow his head…

…and the boy moved not a step towards him.

_He defies you still! _Unbidden, unsummoned; sour reality crept up his throat. _He will not offer understanding for his heart is swollen with putrid bile. Mercy and compassion have been swept aside and now resides within only bitterness._

"Someday," Obi-Wan echoed, but the words were as hollow as the man he had become. So different from the bright, smiling presence heading towards him, Qui-Gon saw as well as felt that now. And knew that Obi-Wan knew it as well.

_Master…Master Qui-Gon, I'm coming…._

"I think…I should not have asked to see you." Qui-Gon closed his eyes. He could not bear to see this young man before him, and remember what he had been like before jealousy and anger had stripped him of his once-bright soul. It hurt far more than anything he had felt in a long, long time.

Was betrayal next? Was not repudiation of his master – betrayal? _Yes_, his soul hissed, _yes_, his mind cried. _Force no_, his heart hoped not. Obi-Wan! Just as the other one had – was this one following the same path: a once bright future leading – into darkness?

Or had the darkness always been there – hidden beneath layers of deceit and innocence?

Before he could even begin to analyze these newfound thoughts – or were they fears?- he was distracted, for a thud of running feet preceded the entry of one panting and red-faced boy. The fair one – the child of the Force – the one who would never betray him. Not this one. Not the "Chosen One," this gift of the Force now in his custody.

"Master Qui-Gon, why are you allowing him to upset you?" Anakin threw a baleful look at Obi-Wan and spit, "Why did you come here? Haven't you hurt him enough?" He threw himself into Qui-Gon's arms.

"Yes, yes I guess I have," Obi-Wan agreed in a whisper.

"It's okay, Ani, I'm fine, really, now that you're here." He comforted his padawan, hands smoothing the boy's tears away. Obi-Wan no longer existed, banished by Anakin's very presence.

Obi-Wan sighed and turned away, a grateful look given to Mace for his hand on his arm. Unseen by all, Anakin raised his head and then his hand as a smirk crossed his face.

Mace caught Obi-Wan just before he hit the ground.


	11. What is Past is Past

**A very kind thank you to all who have reviewed - hopefully I'll have a chance to respond soon.**

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"Just rest now." Mace patted Obi-Wan on the leg. An amused smile played over Obi-Wan's lips as the Jedi left his room.

He could easily shock three quarters of the Temple if he chose, but he knew no one in the Temple would believe him should Obi-Wan be brazen enough to tell anyone Mace Windu could hover like a concerned Crèche Master. Ignoring his protestations, Mace had wrapped an arm around him and practically hauled him back to his room.

The stern Jedi master rarely known to crack a smile had proven far more human than any padawan would ever believe, and probably most knights.

He had insisted the healers run tests to check Obi-Wan's equilibrium, tests finally completed. The young Jedi had thought it was silly, himself; obviously he had merely stumbled, nearly falling flat on his nose like the clumsy oaf he had once been known as. Even a Jedi, even one usually as graceful as he, made missteps from time to time. It hadn't made a bit of difference what he thought.

"Now, you just rest Obi-Wan – no getting out of that bed."

"Yes, Master Windu." He might have meekly agreed, but it was honestly funny and even rather touching how Mace had helped him settle comfortably in bed, saw to it that he had something light to read, and tucked him in.

Had Mace known of his occasional bouts of dizziness or nausea, Obi-Wan had no doubt he'd have been strapped in place or had all his clothing hidden so he could not escape his room.

This, though, hadn't been one of those times. He had tripped, plain and simple. His vision hadn't been blurred, by headache or tears; his bruised hip had supported his weight.

No doubt his equilibrium was merely disturbed from facing the man who had made a promise to see him to knighthood only to set him aside to fulfill a later promise, to another boy, that he would be raised to knighthood as well.

Promises were as nothing set against the Will of the Force.

He had thought the bitter anger and contempt had leached away, a mere aberration born of disappointment. He had seen regret seep into the blue eyes before it, too, slipped away and the eyes of the man who had raised him had become the eyes of a man who seemed to see only a stranger.

His fingers twitched in time to the throbbing of his head, diverting his thoughts away from his inner pain to his physical pain.

He was no stranger to pain; no Jedi was. This pain beat under his skin and in his blood, it soured his stomach.

Be that as it may, whatever else he knew, he knew he was not well in a way he had never been unwell before. His head throbbed as if something was trapped within and sought escape. Should it succeed, it would fundamentally alter his tentative acceptance of his new circumstances; quite possibly upset his emotional equilibrium so that he could not function at all.

Until he had some answers, he wanted no more questions.

He sighed and passed a hand over his chin, he just wished he were well enough to be of some good. It irked him, lying abed while others restored Naboo. Headaches or illness, he was capable of helping in some small way – of feeling useful rather than useless.

No one really knew how deep the damage was to a mind all but torn asunder. Not even Obi-Wan knew, for in a sense he was a prisoner in his own body, unable to touch the Force, to explore and perhaps to help heal from the inside.

_Ouch!_

Obi-Wan winced and rubbed his head. The pain in his head was growing more insistent each hour and had been since he went to see his former master.

He had agreed to Qui-Gon's request because hadn't wanted to leave things between them as they had been, or as it turned out, ended. He had hoped in his heart of hearts that they could both reach past the words, the silences, and the hurts to find healing, though how that would be truly possible with his fate uncertain, he didn't know.

Anakin, however, stood between them.

He always would, Obi-Wan knew now. Even if the Council didn't yet know it, the boy would be trained for he _had_ to be trained. There was no way a boy of such raw, natural talent would be left as easy prey now that the Sith had reemerged.

His future was the one now in doubt. The Force still eluded his grasp. Even should someone step forward to complete his training, something he thought unlikely, he didn't think a new training bond could be completed at his age, especially after the savaging of the one he had once shared with Qui-Gon.

He had already let go of Qui-Gon. One could not hold onto something that did not wish to be held, it only withered and died in captivity. He supposed in time he could learn to let go of his dream to be a Jedi knight; that dream was no longer his to hold onto.

It was strangely fitting that he would finally learn to be Jedi by letting go of his dream to be Jedi.

In time.

"Young Kenobi over your own feet you should not trip," was Yoda's greeting to him some time later. The little Jedi smiled and hopped up to sit at his side.

"Oafy-Wan merely stumbled again," he murmured. He colored at Yoda's stare, for the epithet had been an insult years ago. It was not something he was apt to remember fondly, let alone appropriate for his own use. "Sometimes the best way to disarm something is to make it your own."

A gentle smile of understanding creased Yoda's ancient face.

"Wise you are, Obi-Wan. Words have meaning but meanings reside in the mind. Change the response and the shared meaning of language can change as well. A powerful tool you have discovered; serve you well in the future it will." He gazed at the young man and then tapped him with a gentle finger. "The entire Council will be here soon, along with a Jedi healer. Up to speaking before all will you be?"

He pondered the question. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't really spoken of everything to anyone. He remembered disjointed bits and pieces pouring out of him shortly after he had collapsed. He had been rather a mess then.

He laced his fingers and nodded. "I – believe so." After a moment, he quietly asked, "What exactly does the Temple know?"

The wizened face again creased in a soft smile. "Know they do that alive but hurt you and Master Jinn are and that Naboo is now free, young one. Just spoken to your friends I have and greetings they send to you – nearly asked me to give you a hug on her behalf did young Bant." Yoda leaned forward and patted Obi-Wan's knee.

"Oh, dear Force," Obi-Wan breathed, nearly inaudibly. How could Bant be so audacious as to ask Yoda something like that? _Because Bant is your friend and she would dare much to comfort a friend._ If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her arms around him.

Still smiling, his eyes popped open to see Yoda calmly gazing back at him.

_Nearly asked_, however, so she had not, yet the message had been delivered with some connivance by the grand master of the Order himself. Obi-Wan's grin broadened.

"I don't think even she would actually dare make such a request of you, Master Yoda; your stew is notorious."

"Likes my stew Bant does. It's humans such as you that have no taste for it." Yoda's eyes sparkled with his merriment, echoing Obi-Wan's own.

The gentle banter felt good. Yoda's stew was very real and very awful. Jokes abounded about it, though few felt free to disparage it in Yoda's presence. Obi-Wan was one of the few to dare. It had earned him a "brave, this young one is" and a pat on the head when he was still about the same height as Yoda.

As to hugs, few Jedi indulged in physical gestures of affection, preferring more subtle and less visible means. Obi-Wan remembered many a soft brushing of the Force around him as a crechling and a young initiate, many from Yoda himself. It wouldn't surprise him if Yoda hadn't just now sent a gentle Force caress across his mind, though he couldn't feel it.

Like so much else, he had lost the ability to feel the Force wrap around him just as he had lost the ability to reach out and touch it.

"Feel nothing do you?" Yoda's ears twitched.

"No." He pulled his knees up to his chest and shook his head. He had been right. Yoda had sensed his feelings and attempted to sooth him, but it was all for naught.

The Force had truly left him.

A content Qui-Gon was lying propped up against his pillows, the boy Anakin curled up at his side. It was a touching picture, but distressing to the Jedi master who now stood in the doorway. Such visible affection had rarely been granted to the padawan who had equally deserved it and whose own affections were freely bestowed.

It had been Obi-Wan's devotion to the Jedi master, based on nothing but faith in the Force and hope that it would be repaid at some date in the future, that had finally cracked through to the master's core and liberated both his heart and his spirit so many years before. His faith had been repaid in time: the boy's insecurities as to his place both with his master and the Jedi had been released.

Master and Padawan had done much to heal each other and to make them one of the most effective teams the Order had seen in years.

Now, not for the first time Yoda wondered at how the Jedi master could be so enchanted, so enthralled with a boy he had known but days, so much so that he would so easily dismiss his padawan after so many years. Such open and effusive behavior was not in character for the man, no matter his enthusiasm to embrace all things new – regard and compassion were to be expected, but not this – not this behavior at all.

He studied the boy. Powerful indeed he was, far more powerful than a mere boy should be, especially one untrained.

His anger and arrogance were unchecked. His open disrespect towards Obi-Wan, his dismissal of all but Qui-Gon or the Naboo was marked – was such fear, fear that the new life offered him would be denied? Qui-Gon had had no right to tell the boy he would be trained and to raise his hopes. It was only natural that the boy would wish to stay close to the man who had freed him, but the space next to him had still been occupied.

Fear and anger, aggression, all could be curbed and tamed under the control of the mind, finally to be released to the Force. Had not the padawan a room away finally learned that lesson, as did all Jedi – was not the journey to that point just a parallel journey to the rank of knight?

It was clear that affection and gaiety were present in equal measure in the boy. There was hope for him. Clouded his future might be, but not certain.

There was much indeed to meditate on. The boy's future, as well as that of the young man's a room away. Each was just one of several things Yoda wished to discuss with the rest of the Council. At this moment he only wished to speak to the boy, to merely converse and find out his dreams and his hopes, not just his fears.

A genteel cough marked his presence. "May I speak with the young one, Master Qui-Gon?"

"My name is Anakin," the young boy shot back spiritedly. "I destroyed the Trade Federation command ship; I'm not a kid."

"Young you are to one who is in his mid-eight-hundreds," Yoda replied, unperturbed. The boy's eyes widened. "Master Qui-Gon, he too is young to me. Be not so quick to jump to conclusions, young Anakin Skywalker."

The boy's eyes turned uncertainly to Qui-Gon, who smiled and nodded. "When you're my age, you will learn to appreciate being called 'young,' Ani. I'm sure Master Yoda meant no harm. You may wish to show him just a bit more respect – since he _is_ eight hundred or so years old."

The boy ducked his head and offered a shy smile.

"If you don't mind, young one, I wished to hear your story of the part you played in liberating Naboo. Of immense assistance you were; saved many Gungan lives you did when the droids were left powerless. Tell me your story, will you?"

The boy beamed as Qui-Gon ruffled his hair with a fond hand. "Yeah, I was a big hero. Qui-Gon ordered me to hide…."

Yoda listened, nodding ever so gently. It was a remarkable story. The boy had not really known what he was doing at any point, yet he had somehow managed to do all the right things and not kill himself in the process. The Force had indeed been with him. It would not be wise to leave such a one free for the plucking. Not with the Sith once more a threat.

"…and the best part was Padmé's hug when she found out what I'd done." The boy quickly sobered and looked at Qui-Gon. "But you almost died, Master Qui-Gon, because _that one_ just wasn't good enough to be there when you needed him."

"Shh, Ani, I'm fine. He did his best, I'm sure…mistakes happen. He won't lose his focus like that again."

"What if he does? I don't want anything to happen to you, Master Qui-Gon."

"Nothing will happen to me, Ani, I promise. Forget about Obi-Wan - you're my padawan now and I know I can count on _you_ to protect my back."

Yoda's eyes curled disconsolately. From what he had heard via Mace it didn't seem any blame attached to the padawan. Each Jedi had fallen and each Jedi had picked himself up. In the ebb and flow of a battle, anything could happen and usually could be counted on to do so.

Both Jedi had survived. The Sith, as he now seemed all but certain, had not. That was success enough.

Qui-Gon might wish to believe, and allow young Anakin to believe, that Obi-Wan had done nothing to help earn that fortuitous outcome. Why, he did not know.

He and Mace both had spoken to the Queen, to her handmaidens and the ship's crew, to all those who knew at least a piece of the story. One of the best master-padawan teams the Order had seen in years had been in disharmony until the assault on Theed's palace. The rift had been healed, then, master and padawan in accord.

What then had fractured their relationship? It all traced back to the encounter with the Sith.

Together the Jedi had faced their opponent; together they had advanced and together they had last been seen. That was the point where their stories diverged, and there were no witnesses beyond that point in time.

Yet in all but motivation and observations, the stories were in agreement about the course of the battle. Qui-Gon had noted Obi-Wan's lapse of focus and Obi-Wan had noted the same about Qui-Gon in return, with the added mention that his master's waver of attention had seemed to center about the boy's safety. Coincidentally, as nearly as could be pinpointed, these lapses had occurred at times the threat to the boy had been highest, lending credence to the padawan's observations.

Until both Jedi were recovered and of clear mind to speak in full detail, Yoda was determined to let events take their own course unless the Force demanded otherwise.

So if Qui-Gon wished not to disabuse Anakin of Obi-Wan's equally important role in the fight, Yoda would not interfere. Let the boy think that Obi-Wan had done nothing of note.

He had only saved Qui-Gon's life at nearly the cost to his own. It seemed no one acknowledged that simple and elemental truth, especially not the one whose life had been saved.

Who had the Force truly been with that day?

**Chapter 11**. **What is Past is Past**


	12. The Path Once So Clear

**I apologize in advance for the probably excessive angst (too many chapters of) and this clff-hangar, though to make up for the long delay between the last chapter and the one before, I'm posting this chpater AND the next close together since I've got them uploaded to the doc manager. Next update Monday or Tuesday.**

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**Chapter 12. The Path Once So Clear**

Obi-Wan was dreaming.

Of Paradise.

He had heard of paradise, here he thought he had found it.

The grass had been soft under his feet, a blanket of green stretching as far as he could see. The food had been put away and they had hoisted packs, ready to explore.

Already he had discovered how much life existed in such simple surroundings. Birds chirped and unseen animals rustled vegetation. The occasional insects buzzed by. After a time he had come to believe that just maybe he could sense the life in the grasses, the flowers and the trees.

He had even come to appreciate the rain and the wind, for without either, animal and plant life would not even exist, nor even the appreciation of a warm sun and a soft breeze.

There he had begun to truly understand the subtle beauty and intricacy of the Living Force, there at the side of the man who connected to it best of them all.

It had been one of the most mind-expanding lessons of his life and perhaps the happiest. The final connection had been woven: he, his master, and the Force. He knew now where he belonged.

If he were ever lost, he knew now how to find his way. All he had to do was look – and to see.

He was lost; he knew that, so he again looked.

It was another bright and sunny day with a few fluffy white clouds drifting across a deep blue sky and for a moment he could almost again inhale the sweet, heady perfume of flowers in full bloom. The only thing missing was the grass under his feet: Obi-Wan blinked and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

This was not that time, that time in the past he recalled so fondly. He lay abed: this view was of out there, beyond the window – of Naboo.

It wasn't just the day that sparkled so brightly under the warm sun: Naboo and indeed the capital city of Theed itself once more sparkled with gaiety and color, for the souls of those recently oppressed and occupied soared free after liberation. Bedraggled and ignored, baskets of flowers once more bloomed under the tender fingers of gardeners, who could now tend to other than mere survival.

Theed teemed with life, out there.

How similar in many respects, _then _and _now_ was. A reminiscent smile tilted the corners of his mouth before fading, for he saw the dissimilarity as well - this time he did not feel the Force, Living or otherwise, and the man who had let him find his own way to the lesson had now left him for another.

The path once so clear was no longer his, though the lesson remained.

This time he would have to seek knowledge on a path of his own choosing, one without his mentor and perhaps – perhaps one without the Force.

His lips quivered before he clamped down. He would not feel sorry for himself.

He might be a Jedi in name only, but by the Force he would behave as a Jedi, willing to face life's challenges without fear or doubt. He would let the full truth of that lesson years ago surface once more. Life existed – the Force existed in all things, even those things Force-blind.

As he now was.

But acceptance came slowly, not in one fell swoop. It would take time and work, with steps forward and steps back. He could see the existence of that which he could no longer feel; yearn all he wished, it was beyond his grasp. Gone…all gone.

Sight had fled him, no matter how hard he now looked.

He pinched his nose, tired of the tears that burned inside. He didn't want to dwell on his loss. Others had losses as well; they survived and they adapted.

The blind still sang, the lame created verses, the deaf parented their children. He still had five senses, if once he had had six.

_But I live a life that needs all six!_ His heart cried inside – and his mind agreed.

He sighed once more. Who was the pathetic life form now, if not himself? Focusing on his losses only diminished how much he had left.

A quiet knock against the open door brought Obi-Wan's eyes back from the window, startled, for once he would have known someone was there, perhaps who as well. Now he was taken unaware with no chance to hide behind a stoic Jedi mask.

"I am sorry I was right that day– the Jedi _was_ the one in need of assistance." The Queen, only this was Padmé – no makeup, no entourage, just a young lady dressed informally - stood at the door, a wide smile on her face. "I startled you; I am sorry. May I come in, Padawan Kenobi?"

"Of course, Milady." He surreptitiously brushed a hand across his eyes, just in case. In a pale imitation of his usual greeting, he swept a hand in a grand gesture inviting her to enter rather than bow as courtesy would normally require.

"I'm informal today – call me Padmé, if you will." Even her smile was that of Padmé, not the Queen.

"Obi-Wan, then. Padmé."

"Obi-Wan it is. I rather enjoyed the few opportunities we had to speak on the ship – your observations on how nonplussed if not absolutely horrified a totally hive-oriented culture which knew nothing of independent thought would be if suddenly transported into the middle of even a dull Senate debate were quite droll. I hadn't known Jedi had such a well-developed sense of humor."

Obi-Wan found it easy to relax in her presence, to enjoy just a simple friendly conversation. He'd had little opportunity of late, though on the ship he had managed to find opportunities to socialize and divert his mind from the strain in his relationship with Qui-Gon.

He offered his own warm smile in return.

"We rarely display our individuality other than among ourselves; we are as varied in opinions and tastes as any other group of sentient beings. Only when fully attuned to the Force do we usually find near unanimous agreement -," he swallowed as his words hit him and finished lamely, "usually."

Sympathetic eyes studied him. For a non-Jedi, she was perceptive; too much so. She might not know the reason for the discord between the two Jedi on the ship, but she had been quite aware of it despite her apparent ignorance. She was as tactful as wise, kind as well. She reminded him of Bant.

"Such individuality raises my opinion even higher of the Jedi, then." At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated, "It is easy for those who know the Jedi only as semi-mythic beings to think of them as apart from other sentient beings, near-gods or mere magicians. Your Order should squabble more amongst yourselves – you might be even more highly regarded."

Her grin followed his.

"May I be present when you make that suggestion to Master Yoda or Master Windu? I shall take care to remain out of range of either Master Yoda's gimer stick or Master Windu's glare."

Padmé giggled.

"I adore Master Yoda, though he is bit cryptic isn't he? Master Windu, though – that man does know how to frown, does he not, even at his most courteous. And Qui-Gon is simply Qui-Gon – Ani adores him."

Just like that, reality intruded.

"They adore each other," he agreed. Had he betrayed himself? Something had flickered in her eyes that might have been sympathy.

"'The Queen' has not had a chance to express her thanks and appreciation for all that the Jedi has done for Naboo, so allow me to say on her behalf," she winked, "thank you, Padawan Kenobi."

He shifted a bit uncomfortably. "We require no thanks for we only did our duty."

"You said this was the first time you had to take a life…that must weigh heavy on you." Her hand lay on his arm, warm and comforting. "I – don't know what to say. To say I am glad it was not I seems so, well," she shrugged, "insensitive, perhaps."

"It is a possibility that all Jedi have to face and few do. I would do so again were it necessary, and with the same regrets. My master…Master Yoda and Master Windu will see to it that I release my feelings," he bit his lip and finished in a whisper, "to the Force."

"I am glad they will support you."

"We support each other." His eyes begged her not to bring up the obvious, that support could be fractured and strained. That last conversation with Qui-Gon had been bittersweet, for it was then that he had fully acknowledged their path together had come to an end.

_Even the Force seems to acknowledge that truth_, he thought, turning to stare out the window, for a cloud briefly obscured the sun. His wry sense of humor asserted itself. _At least it's not raining._

"We have few rainy days at this time of year."

Obi-Wan turned his head and blinked in confusion. _Did I speak aloud_?

"What?" She laughed merrily at his incredulous look. "Don't tell me you were thinking of our weather! Naboo is beautiful this time of year. You should see it during the rainy season – it gets rather gloomy. Our museums get rather packed then."

"I should like a chance to see more of your city before I leave. I find Theed far more visually pleasing to the senses than Coruscant, though I rarely spend much there outside the Temple. We, ah," he cleared his throat, "I have often been away on missions since my apprenticeship began."

"Perhaps I can escort you to a few places before you leave. Do you know if Anakin will be going with you then?" Her gaze was both frank and sympathetic. She did know, enough to feel pity even if she didn't openly express it. He appreciated her restraint.

"I have no idea, really, but Master Qui-Gon is quite determined to train the boy, with or without the Council's approval. He is rather adept at getting his way…." He waved his hand, not daring or wishing to say anything more than that. It was not his place.

"Anakin proved himself worthy of re-evaluation; without him even I must admit the outcome might have been uncertain, and far more Gungans would have died, if not more of your own people. You ended one battle in Theed and he one in space, thus ensuring the liberation of Naboo."

He saw the spark in her eyes, the warmth in them at the mention of Anakin. It was the same spark in Qui-Gon's eyes. The spark he could never ignite himself.

Despising himself for his sudden jealousy and longing for something he would never have, he picked at the blanket beneath his fingers while maintaining his outward composure.

"He is a remarkable boy, indeed, but I still say we are equally indebted to the Jedi for our salvation."

Before Obi-Wan could murmur a response, a tousled blond head peeked around the corner and two angry eyes stared accusingly at Obi-Wan before switching back to Padmé.

"Why are you in here with _him_ - I've been expecting you, Padmé."

"Oh, Ani, I just stopped by on my way to pick you up." Padmé smiled affectionately at the boy and tousled his hair as Anakin beamed. The whine in his voice had been plain to Obi-Wan, but apparently not to Padmé. Was jealousy coloring his view? He looked down; back up in surprise as she continued, "I don't suppose, Obi-Wan, the healers would let you out of here to accompany us, would they? We're going to do a bit of sightseeing: I know you'd love it."

"He can't come with us!" Anakin stared accusingly at first one than the other. His lips quivered. "I want to be with you, Padmé, not him."

"Oh, Ani."

It was all Obi-Wan could do not to roll his eyes. That lip quiver was good. Padmé had quite fallen for it, for she merely shook her head and laughed. Any initiate caught behaving like that at the Temple was quickly disabused of the notion that such behavior was appropriate. Manipulation, the Jedi quite rightly called it.

The pout came next.

"He's just a Jedi reject, Padmé; I don't know why you even bother to talk to him. Master Qui-Gon even rejected him. C'mon, say hello to him before we leave." He reached for Padmé's hand and tugged.

Images of long ago filled Obi-Wan's throat with bile. He put a hand to his mouth, hoping to swallow the rancid fluid before it spilled out, further shaming him.

_Trudging head down to the transport to Bandomeer – away from the Temple. _

He had known his entire life he would be a Jedi. It had been the only certainty. Now he knew he would not. He had failed the Force.

"_Obi-Wan, focus. Your connection to the Living Force is deplorable." _He'd heard the unspoken _not just today_ that followed that. His connection to the Unifying Force was not enough, would never be enough for his master. He had to reinvent himself, if he could, had to gain a connection that was only tenuous at best.

And he'd improved. Maturity and a true desire to know the Force in both its incarnations had brought him closer with each year, nay, each month that passed.

But it was never enough, close enough. Within lingered the expectation and the knowledge that some day, once again, he would hear those words: "_Focus, Obi-Wan, on the here and now;" and know that he would murmur the dutiful, earnest, and very sincere, "Yes, Master."_

No matter his growth, no matter his growing connection, it was not enough. He would again fail in his master's eyes.

"_Give him up." _Those words had struck deep, opening a wound not easily healed. Master Dooku and Qui-Gon had argued – about him. He'd known the two masters had spoken of his training, though his master's master had had little direct contact with him_. _

"_Can't you see…;" _the next words he had accidentally overheard had been_, "Give him up." _

_His grand master thought he wasn't good enough to be Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan. He had been judged unworthy. He had never known the reason why, or why Qui-Gon had not dismissed him then or there. He'd only known that he had failed to measure up in one great Jedi's mind, already, just weeks into his training._

He'd grown far from those memories, dealt with them and set them aside long ago, a relinquished part of his past. His past, not his present. Now the present had become his past, the circle complete. This time he _had_ been set aside, this rejection final.

Even without seeing his white face, Padmé crouched and put her hands on Anakin's shoulders. Her "Anakin Skywalker, that's no way to speak to anyone. Apologize to Padawan Kenobi," was gentle, but quite firm.

Anakin's lips again quivered and he threw himself in Padmé's arms, sobbing, "I'm sorry, Padmé; I'm just so worried about Master Qui-Gon, I don't care what the healers say." Over her shoulder two spiteful eyes glared at Obi-Wan even as he sweetly offered a trembling, "I'm sorry, Padawan Kenobi." His eyes offered something else, a threat: stay away from what's mine.

"That's much better, Ani."

"You – you won't beat me, like Watto did?"

Padmé's hand flew to her mouth in horror and she gathered Anakin into another tight hug. "No one will ever hurt you again, Ani. Ever."

Even as disturbed as he was by the boy's animosity, Obi-Wan was equally appalled, his shame forgotten as remorse overcame him. The boy had had a brutal life, no wonder he acted out. He was even more appalled at himself, for he had rescued adults and children alike from similar treatment over the years.

Because they had been so obviously broken, so dispirited, he had not seen behind this boy's fragile shell to the tormented child within. Had he been in greater touch with the Living Force, he would have known.

He should have known had he not focused on his own hurt feelings.

Qui-Gon had been right all along.

"Ani -." He never got to finish the sentence let alone the boy's name.

"My name is Anakin, not Ani and I don't want you feeling sorry for me. You hate me."

"Why would I hate you?" He slid out of bed and squatted next to the boy, daring to venture a finger to wipe away a tear. "I know I've hurt your feelings, and I'm very sorry for that, truly sorry, but I don't hate you."

"Yes, you do – you think I'm pathetic and dangerous." He swatted away Obi-Wan's hand.

His eyes met Padmé's and they slowly nodded at each other as Obi-Wan stood, heaving a soft sigh. "It's okay," she mouthed, touching his hand gently before scooping Anakin up in her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder to hide his tears.

The young Jedi nodded awkwardly. "Thank you for stopping by and enjoy your tour."

"I'm sure we will, once Anakin calms down." She smiled and turned to leave. Anakin lifted his head from her shoulder and looked directly at Obi-Wan.

A shiver trickled up his spine, for those eyes – they were not the eyes of a child, a selfless, giving, compassionate child, even one who had been mistreated and enslaved. Obi-Wan had seen eyes like that before: the eyes of the Sith, promising vengeance.

Even without the Force, he had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.

* * *

It had taken both Padmé and Qui-Gon a long time to calm Anakin down. Between sobs Anakin had choked out how Obi-Wan hated him, had always hated him.

Listening to the distraught boy, the list of Obi-Wan's sins seemed to grow ever longer. He was a grown man, not a child – how dare he treat a child so?

The more he had consoled Anakin, the angrier Qui-Gon had become. Obi-Wan might have been expected to feel a sense of loss; perhaps a bit of anger, but to take it out on the boy – this innocent child – was unconscionable. It was the Force he should be mad at, if anything and yet if he was would be to deny his very nature as a Jedi.

A Jedi _accepted_, and a Jedi accepted the _Force_. Obi-Wan had done neither.

And now a boy who had escaped a terrible past into a wondrous future, a boy who despite his past gave without regard and expected nothing in return had been crushed by the spite and jealousy of a man who not just knew better, but had been taught better.

He had known years ago Obi-Wan had issues with anger; it was one reason he had initially refused to even consider taking the boy as his padawan. That boy had not grown beyond that, only grown in his ability to conceal his true nature.

His horror deepened when Anakin casually mentioned he'd overheard that Obi-Wan had been touched by the dark side at seeing Qui-Gon struck down and that anger had fueled him in his battle. That cemented Qui-Gon's current view of Obi-Wan: his former padawan had accepted the easy strength and power of the dark side and was perhaps even now – tainted.

How else to explain his failings - he had always been ripe for plucking by the dark, and when tempted, had succumbed. Perhaps not fallen yet – not truly lost – but tainted and always now both easy prey and suspect.

Now Qui-Gon could admit that perhaps he had indeed severed the bond – perhaps, for he had little memory of what transpired on Naboo after the Sith's blade had pierced his body.

For both the boy's and Padmé's sake, he had held his anger in check until they left.

"I want you to do your best to stay away from Obi-Wan from now on and I'm going to tell him as well. I won't let him upset you ever again, Anakin." He hugged the boy.

"Master Jinn -."

He held up a hand to forestall Padmé's words. He did not need to hear her attempts to apologize for Obi-Wan. His proof had been crying in his arms.

"Anakin, dry your tears and forget about Obi-Wan. He can't hurt you if you don't let him. He's not worth it. Now, go with Padmé and enjoy yourself." He patted the boy on the head and slid him onto his own feet at his bedside.

The boy gave a tremulous smile and walked off hand in hand with Padmé, though he could sense a certain amount of bewilderment within her. He appreciated the thought that she had wished to defend his former padawan though he wasn't sure why she might wish to offer excuses or reasons for his behavior. Her kind heart, perhaps, seeking explanations even if those explanations were false.

Gradually his anger cooled enough that he could face his former padawan as a Jedi would, calm and in control.

Having spent more time than he cared to remember lying in hospital beds, Qui-Gon knew exactly how to disentangle himself from the machines. What came next was harder: actually getting up and standing on his own feet.

His legs nearly buckled under him, but he had been expecting that. What the human body found difficult, the Force did not. It kept him upright and it allowed him to shunt the pain aside.

He didn't have far to go. It didn't matter; the Force would guide him there. How he got back, he didn't care. So, one slow tottering step at a time, he took the steps to free Anakin.

Obi-Wan would never hurt Anakin again. Never.

"How dare you…" the words died on his lips as he reached the doorway. "Oh, dear Force, Obi-Wan!"

He fell to the young man's side and lifted the limp body into his lap. Blood, so much blood. "Obi-Wan?" Shaking fingers reached out; he dipped his head close to hear the sound of breathing and found – nothing.

Obi-Wan was dead.

And the tears fell.


	13. Time Alone Cannot Heal All Wounds

I guess a** lot **of you thought I killed Obi-Wan. Well, now if find out if someone did - or did not.

BTW: there's a fair amount of time-jumping in the early part of this story but it settles down to a chronological progression soon. I don't necessarily recommend this format, but I had no one to run it by and it seemed to work to reveal/hide what I wanted.

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****Chapter 13. Time Alone Cannot Heal All Wounds**

It was a somber journey back to the Temple.

Yet a faint sense of relief could be sensed in the Force; the Jedi were bringing their own back. Alive. Both of them, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.

The padawan was kept under sedation per the Jedi healer's recommendation. He was lucky to even be alive.

No one knew exactly what had happened, only that he had been found crumpled on the floor at the side of his bed. Blood on the side of the bed all but confirmed he had fallen and hit his head. As near as they could figure, he must have had a dizzy spell and fallen right after the Queen and Anakin had left his room.

Scalp wounds were notorious for profuse bleeding and Obi-Wan had bled profusely. Not surprisingly, his body had gone into shock. That was what had all but stolen his life, for the head wound, once cleansed, revealed itself to be far less worrisome than it initially appeared.

How long he had been without a pulse or breath was not clear.

It was a miracle of the Force, some whispered, that had led Qui-Gon there to find him.

The additional miracle, if such it was, was that the turmoil in the Force had alerted Mace Windu as well.

The devastation in Qui-Gon's eyes was heartbreaking.

Mace grabbed several healers in response to the numbed anguish reverberating within the Force, snapping a terse command to follow. They found Qui-Gon on the floor, red-stained hands trying to staunch blood and Obi-wan lying in his lap. He seemed almost in shock himself, in his grief even refusing to release the young man to the healers' care.

Mace took one look at his old friend and gently coaxed him to let go of the limp body, then after one last stricken look at the boy on the floor, took Qui-Gon's arm and gently led him back to his own room, sat him down, and cleansed him of Obi-Wan's blood.

"He's dead, Mace. My Obi-Wan is dead." His voice was hoarse and his hands atremble.

But he had been wrong.

If one defined death by the cessation of breathing and beating, Obi-Wan had indeed been dead - though not in the final way doctors defined it - and was now alive, but damaged in a way he had not been before. When he first regained a semblance of consciousness, he was incoherent and dazed, unable to explain what had happened.

It wasn't just that he could not remember, but that speech itself was slow and halting, as if the mind had trouble connecting his thoughts to actual spoken words.

Brain damage from lack of oxygen? No one yet knew for sure.

"It's a form of mental shock," the healers advised those who cared. Qui-Gon was not amongst them.

Though he had been in tears over "his Obi-Wan" when the healers first arrived, Qui-Gon had later shaken off his concern for his former padawan with a serene, "He is in the hands of the Force now, not mine."

Mace had all but thrown up his hands and left the Jedi master with "his Anakin" while he silently released his frustrations to the Force by imagining any number of colorful ways of knocking some semblance of sense into his "old friend," scenarios that would most assuredly violate every tenet of the Jedi code.

There was little else to do having already interviewed all parties to the liberation of Naboo, not to mention a rather frustrating interrogation of the captured Nute Gunray before an official request came through that such be left to the Justice Department. Thus Mace had had little to do other than keep company with Yoda and keep watch at the side of the padawan whose fate he had found he deeply cared about. He had come to be almost as fond of the boy as Yoda, much to his surprise.

Yoda, wisely, made no mention of the same.

* * *

Diplomacy was the art of deceit, or so many armchair scholars claimed. The truth of the assertion, like many things in life, depended on one's point of view.

Many would argue that deception in itself was not necessarily bad, deception in its mildest form merely the practice of social etiquette with no intention to harm but rather the opposite, such as the trivial and harmless deception that the Republic ship would arrive directly from orbit to settle within the large central square of Theed.

Unbeknownst except to a few, the ship _unofficially_ landed to allow the Jedi healer onboard to disembark and head directly for the medical center. The remainder onboard awaited their "cue." Once all the Naboo dignitaries were assembled, they would _officially_ arrive, prompting the kick off of the scheduled festivities.

Welcoming ceremonies, even a celebration of freedom from tyranny, meant little to the healer. His concern lay with two colleagues and the answers he hoped to find.

The healer was particularly intrigued with Qui-Gon's miraculous survival of what should almost certainly have been a fatal wound. All of the Temple's healers, not just the Council, wanted to know just how Kenobi had kept his master alive. He had neither the training nor the skill.

Equally intriguing: why had such a successful outcome had such a negative consequence on the padawan?

It had been hoped that Healer Jorak's unique ability to pick up faint Force echoes within cells would not only help to provide an explanation for something so unprecedented, but help to devise a viable treatment plan for the padawan's recovery.

Now another factor had complicated the equation: Kenobi's newest injury, information transmitted to the ship upon its reversion from hyperspace.

Unfortunate in itself, it might thwart any real possibility of finding a comprehensive answer.

Thanking the Naboo guardsman who had guided him to the Medical Center, Jorak greeted the two Jedi masters who awaited him with a deep bow. They took him to Qui-Gon's bedside first.

The Jedi was fast asleep, to no one's surprise. Recuperation required energy; the expenditure of such required rejuvenation through sleep. A small frown creased Mace's brows as they entered the room, Jorak noticed with some surprise, but he made no comment, merely retreating to let the healer examine his patient.

What he found was unexpected. The cellular echoes reflected a profusion of Force signatures entangled and interwoven. The older traces should have been the most prominent, overlain by the faintest of traces of the healers who had treated him, not the roughly equal intensity that Jorak found.

Within the mind itself, an old and established bond showed signs of severe damage though a strand or two remained intact while another one pulsed and glowed with new life, overshadowing the longer established and most likely unrepairable one.

Had the bond regenerated spontaneously? Would Kenobi show the same?

Jorak finally straightened up, pronouncing himself more than satisfied with the Jedi's physical treatment and recovery. Qui-Gon's eyes fluttered as he spoke. The healer smiled at him.

"You'll be fine given time – no missions for you for several months. Plenty of time to just sit and smell the roses, thanks to that padawan of yours," he assured the groggy and awakening Jedi, who merely grunted and blinked in response.

Would Kenobi show the same apparent bond regrowth, not to mention the inexplicable and intricate cellular Force echo patterns, Jorak wondered, tilting his head in indication that he was ready to move on. If so, it would take painstaking work to understand the complex patterns in both men. For now he had to concentrate on gathering all the information he could before the sensory impressions faded; the answers would have to be pursued back at the Temple.

He wasn't surprised to find Kenobi looking in worse shape than Qui-Gon; considering he had been all but dead the day before while Qui-Gon had been steadily improving over the last few.

"He hasn't uttered a straight sentence yet." Mace's eyebrows drew together as he gazed at the young man.

"And probably won't for a while," Jorak said calmly. "Well, Kenobi, my boy, what secrets have you to reveal?" The healer's hands hovered over the padawan; delicately probing with the Force.

"The patterns are – complicated," he finally murmured, shaking his head and glancing at the two Council members. "A veritable mess to untangle, just as with his master. However, Kenobi's emotions are more accessible and with him, the echoes bounce off each other and complicate interpretation."

"Much he has been through," Yoda said softly. "Feared for him I did at first."

"Thank Master Windu's instincts." Jorak could not dismiss the possibility that remnants of the vast Force power the padawan had wielded on Qui-Gon's behalf were at least partially responsible, in part or whole, but the mind blocks had shielded the padawan from some of the initial trauma when his mind had been at its most raw and vulnerable.

According to the report he'd read aboard the ship, Kenobi had gone from nearly incoherent and withdrawn to responsive and interacting. Jorak just hoped it was not a temporary aberration, but the beginning of healing.

After a lengthy examination he was quite convinced that Kenobi had suffered two distinct and overlapping traumas.

One most certainly had to be the Force healing – had it gone terribly awry or overloaded Kenobi's sensory inputs? A plausible theory, to be sure, but certainly the severing of the bond had been savage considering Master Yoda's considerable worry about the padawan's retention of sanity.

Had both events worked in tandem? More than likely.

Kenobi would have already been reeling from whichever psychic event hit first and all but bludgeoned by the second. Logic alone told him the destruction of the bond must have come second. Nausea and disorientation would have quickly overwhelmed whatever tenuous control Kenobi would have been able to retain, leading to his collapse, both mental and physical.

Defenses non-existent, at his most vulnerable, his mind would have been a maelstrom of chaotic energies feeding and magnifying upon itself without mercy.

"Think of a stretched band suddenly severed," he tried to explain. "It unleashed a ricochet of Force energies inside his mind and body."

"Explaining his disconnection from the Force?"

Jorak shrugged. "He may have cut himself off from the Force in sheer self-protection without even realizing it; he may have irretrievably damaged the midis. It's far too soon for any kind of definitive answer. The Force echoes I can sense, but they're unusual and I need time to sort them out. This second injury will make it much harder; it has clouded the earlier imprints."

As to any spontaneous regeneration of the bond, there was no sign of such within Kenobi as there had been within Qui-Gon. Just tendrils, shadowy tendrils infiltrating the shredded remnants.

And the occasional, all but invisible, small flares of light.

Mace frowned. He had hoped for something more definitive than _theories_ from Jorak.

"Kenobi will continue to be dazed and confused for some time, I suspect." The healer gazed at the two Jedi masters and added gently, "Not to mention that there is residual weakness on one side of his body from the micro seizures he has had and might well continue to be afflicted with, a result of this latest injury. The long-term prognosis, I'm afraid, is unclear. We will have to see how he responds."

"Have faith in the young one and the Force I will," Yoda declared, stroking the young man's hair off his forehead. "A great Jedi he was meant to grow into, so the Force has foretold."

Mace glanced at Yoda: always before Yoda had couched his words regarding Kenobi as one of potential. Never had he spoken as if that future was assured until now. Was this why Yoda had always been so interested in the boy?

Yoda caught the look and interpreted it correctly. "Fond of him, I am, but for who he is, not who he will be."

_Will be._ There it was again, this sense that Yoda knew what lay ahead in the boy's future.

"Truthfully, he may not be the same ever again, man or Jedi," Jorak stated bluntly before Mace could question Yoda's statement. He sat down and leaned forward. "Functioning at his pre-injury levels would satisfy me. Master Yoda, you said you personally remembered the Jedi who years ago suffered from a similar destruction of the bond?"

Sadness rolled off the little master as he nodded.

"Died he did,' he confirmed heavily. "Strong in the Force he was but not strong enough to keep fighting when the Force withdrew from him."

"Might he have recovered?"

Yoda blinked. "I do not remember hearing if that had been deemed possible. Granted more time, perhaps – but time he did not have."

"I researched the case records and it records that Knight Talar coped with his loss relatively well – or so it seemed until after his death. In hindsight he was in desperate need of support. He did not seek it. It is critical that Kenobi get that support; we can't rely on Master Windu's mind blocks for long. Though he, too, is recuperating, Qui-Gon should be able to provide the emotional support his padawan -."

"No," Mace interrupted. "Qui-Gon – I'm sorry to say, but Obi-Wan is no longer Qui-Gon's padawan – or, it seems, even his concern."

"Ah…I see; I had heard a rumor. His - new master, perhaps?"

Yoda and Mace didn't even have to look at each other.

"A knight needs no master," Mace said firmly, for the padawan had been tested on Naboo and not found wanting. He had proven himself ready; his trials found, faced and passed in real life. "It is not official yet, but Yoda and I agree…he's earned knighthood."

"Even so, if you don't want to lose Kenobi, he needs support – at least until the Force returns to him – if it does."

Mace leaned back in his seat, rubbing his forehead as Yoda merely blinked and sighed. They exchanged glances, for the implication of the healer's words was chilling. "If" the Force returns.

_If? _

How could one be a Jedi without the Force?

The Council would not cast Obi-Wan out. It would be cruelty beyond comprehension, but to remain a Jedi amongst his fellows would be cruel, too.

The Force would provide a solution. It had not coursed through Kenobi to work a miracle, only to discard its emissary of life.

Such was simply – incomprehensible.


	14. Pomp and Celebration

**Chapter 14. Pomp and Celebration**

The occasional cloud obscured the sun, throwing shadows over the otherwise brightly lit plaza. The shadows were all external; the internal ones had been all but banished. Naboo was free, the camps empty and the liberated had resumed their lives.

Gungans and Naboo alike stood, sat, and craned their necks around the perimeter of the plaza. Spirits were high; the parade and celebration would soon begin.

The Queen, in full formal regalia, surrounded by her advisors and a few guardsmen, backed by her handmaidens, stood front and center with Master Yoda and Anakin Skywalker off to one side. The captured Trade Federation prisoners stood cuffed and ready to be remanded into the Republic's custody.

The average Naboo considered it a high honor that such powerful representatives had come, though the Gungans were less impressed, having had next to no contact to the greater galactic government. What they lacked in genuine interest was made up in enthusiasm and curiosity. Their leader, Boss Nass, had taken quite a delighted interest in the young Queen and the two groups were determined to seek closer cooperation after years of cultural isolation.

Anakin's eyes were darting all over the place, taking in all the sights and sounds. He had rarely been around such jubilant folks and he was enjoying himself immensely. Life on Tatooine was rarely placid, but most folks tried to keep a low profile what with the abundance of Hutts, freelance pilots and the anonymity-seekers who were fleeing from trouble.

Such open gaiety and cheer accompanied the Boonta Eve races, and only the Boonta Eve races, in Anakin's up to now limited experience.

Because Qui-Gon Jinn had been informal, friendly and relaxed with all beings that he had encountered – even Watto – Anakin had expected the rest of the Jedi to be little different.

It had not been an unreasonable expectation, he had thought.

Instead, he had found the atmosphere in the Jedi Temple to be unbearably stuffy, not just low profile. The Jedi were quiet and serene, courteous but not effusive with their welcome. They had acknowledged but not celebrated his victory in the Boonta Eve pod race.

They had not gone out of their way to befriend him and make him feel unique and special, as Qui-Gon did. He resented them for that.

Here, here on Naboo, he was one of the heroes: "the young hero" of Naboo.

Anakin did not care why the newly elected Chancellor and the balance of the Jedi Council had come to Naboo – one to celebrate with his people and the other to seek answers to a greater mystery – why here had the Sith shown themselves and to what end? That death had been the end of one did not matter. Lore had told the Jedi there were two, always two.

Anakin cared only that he was by Power – and Padmé.

Anakin fidgeted next to Yoda, lightly scuffing his toe against the hard surface, for he found it hard to be still. He had always been a doer: talking or working with his hands. Stillness was for the old and infirm, the boring and scholarly.

However, Qui-Gon had told him to be here, that this was his chance. He had balked only until he realized Padmé would be there as well - the Chancellor, the Jedi Council and Padmé.

The most powerful entities in the galaxy, and he would stand with them. They had knowledge he did not, power he aspired to. He even had power enough to take the knowledge from them, should he choose, but he was willing to bide his time for the consequence of disobedience was far too familiar in memory.

Patience. It was what he had been taught, in that part of himself that was hidden away; a patience that no one could see lurked beneath the always-moving body.

The part of him that was still pure boy, untamed and enthused, grinned in pure excitement as the ship slowly settled to the ground and the ramp opened. First to disembark were the Chancellor's guards, identically robed and masked, anonymous almost to invisibility as mere background spectacle, even their solemn march of little interest except to one wide-eyed boy.

Two took custody of the prisoners and retreated without fanfare.

Next to come was a richly clad man, Chancellor of the Republic Palpatine, formerly Senator from Naboo, a look of genial delight on his distinguished face at stepping forth on his native planet, its people – his people - free at last from the perfidy of the Trade Federation. Strength and kindness radiated from his presence.

"Master Jedi." Palpatine nodded to Yoda, who inclined his head in stately greeting. A genuine smile crossed his face as he turned his gaze to Anakin; his eyes twinkled impishly.

"So this is the young hero of Naboo to whom we are indebted; I'll speak to you later, son." He winked as Anakin stood just a bit taller at being acknowledged.

The Jedi Council silently followed in his footsteps; Yoda joined them off to the side as the Chancellor strode up to the Queen and bowed, assuming his formal manner as easily as he had before ignored it to first greet those nearest to him.

"Chancellor Palpatine." She extended her hand in a formal gesture of greeting.

"Milady." He bowed over her hand.

One might have thought they had not met before, that Senator Palpatine had not stood by the Queen's side in the Senate as she called for the vote of no confidence that toppled Chancellor Valorum from power. This, however, was the first time the Chancellor and Queen had met in their respective roles and as such formality ruled.

"Your Excellency, I present Boss Nass, the leader of the Gungan who played an instrumental role in liberating Naboo and Anakin Skywalker who is responsible for destroying the Trade Federation droid control ship thus saving many Gungan lives."

Anakin beamed and took a step forward to stand beside the portly Gungan.

"It is my honor, Milady, Boss Nass, Anakin Skywalker." The Chancellor reached out and rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and studied him, as if their earlier exchange had not happened. "I intend to keep a close eye on you in the future. The Republic owes you a great debt."

Anakin wiggled with joy. He needed no one to tell him that here was someone who appreciated him, even as Qui-Gon did. He would go far with two such powerful allies. He was _destined_, after all.

"Shall we adjourn to the parade steps, Milady?" Palpatine offered his arm and the two led the party to the Palace Steps for the victory parade as the crowd cheered and waved arms, hands and banners.

Relief and joy, delight and excitement swirled in the air, intoxicating and seductive.

_This_ was what Anakin wanted from life – he wanted power, not such much for its own sake, but for its rewards. He would do great things and be acknowledged a great man: the deeds and the person intertwined.

He had been promised all this all his life.

So Anakin drank in the adulation, overjoyed to be one of the central figures. He stood next to the Chancellor and Padmé – all eyes and acclaim upon them for the moment. It mattered not at all to him that the absence of the two Jedi went publicly unacknowledged, even Qui-Gon Jinn, for few outside the Queen's retinue even knew of their role in events.

It might well remain that way.

Some within the government had already gone so far as to suggest that the former Chancellor had exceeded his authority in dispatching Jedi to oversee a trade dispute, even if just as his personal representatives. Technical authority over the Jedi Order resided within the Senate, not the Chancellor's Office.

The Jedi Order could not be perceived to have violated neutrality and impartiality.

Even if the two Jedi had merely protected the Queen, it could easily be spun by the unscrupulous into a taking of sides – with the Naboo against the Trade Federation.

Mace sat alone at the side of the ailing padawan, eyes closed and tilted back in his seat, meditating. The two Jedi masters had discussed, argued, and debated much in the long hours past. The Sith had reemerged, on that they no longer doubted. But why? Why now?

Were Jinn and Kenobi caught by mere happenstance in some yet unknown plot - or targets?

Certainly Qui-Gon Jinn might be considered a threat to the Sith with his deep connection to the Living Force. Young Kenobi, potentially so as well; his "bad feelings" often arose from his ability to sense discord or disharmony rippling in the Force.

Sediment had muddied the clear eddies, so slowly and invidiously that only now in hindsight was it apparent.

"Do you remember the crystal clarity of the Force, Obi-Wan?" Mace spoke softly so as not to disturb the young man, lying so passively on the bed. "Were your 'bad feelings' a sense of wrongness you were too young to identify and name, feelings too easily dismissed on our parts as mere worrying?"

They would never know now.

Mace sighed and settled back in his seat. For the moment he had nothing to do but keep his solitary vigil.

Yoda had already left to greet the arriving Council and the newly elected Chancellor who accompanied them, with one last look at Obi-Wan and a firmly voiced, "Our youngling you watch and protect."

Mace had only nodded and smoothed the hair back from the boy's closed eyes. Only now did he wonder at Yoda's choice of words.

_Protect_.

And he was uneasy.


	15. Caught Between a Rock and QuiGon

**I have a request: in future, if any of you find a chapter "boring" like one reader did, or slow, or confusing, or really "anything" along those lines, or have some other criticism, please do me the favor of elaborating on WHY you find it so. The explanation turns criticism into critiquing. The first is not helpful (if you can't say something nice, don't say it); the second is extremely helpful and might improve what I post in future. **

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**Chapter 15. Caught Between a Rock and a Qui-Gon**

Mace Windu was a most unhappy man.

"Qui-Gon, you're a fool." Mace growled to no one as he heard the rumble of soft laughter not long after Anakin disappeared into said Jedi master's presence. _Fool _– for abandoning his padawan so close to his trials, _fool_ for doing so without adequate explanation, and _fool_ for being so blasted unconcerned about the repercussions.

Not to mention being a _fool_ for ignoring the Council's concerns with his single-minded focus on young Skywalker and his unwillingness to even admit that the Council had legitimate concerns. Concerns he could have chosen to address and refute. After all the – admittedly noisy – debates the two had engaged in, sometimes one and sometimes the other forced to concede some point, Mace had thought his old friend might have finally realized it was better to try to persuade the Council to his viewpoint rather than ram his personal view down their collective throats.

But there had never been a debate, only an ultimatum.

You couldn't debate an obstinate, bull-headed Jedi master who had lost all sense of perspective, if not his mind, his focus so narrow it couldn't even contemplate a look at the wider picture.

The Council saw well the potential dangers ahead.

Breaking tradition born of hard-won experience would be fraught with unknown perils and complications. Many Jedi would have misgivings, and rightfully so, for abandoning a rule never yet questioned. The boy himself would not find it easy fitting into the Jedi life. How could he: not raised in their traditions, not trained nearly from birth and yet thrust amongst a community closely knitted by those traditions and training?

Yet such a raw powerful child could not be ignored, left in slavery and amongst those who cared little for him as a person. The Jedi's own duty to the galaxy demanded he be bound to the Force's Will. They would be poor servants of the Force themselves if they abandoned the boy, to complacently watch his talent twisted to some self-serving or greedy use, perhaps exploited to another's ends.

So it was after much deliberation the Council had agreed to let Anakin Skywalker be trained by Qui-Gon Jinn, but not without grave misgivings. The master would not be deterred and it was deemed a larger risk to leave the boy behind, or even away from their watchful eyes.

Qui-Gon had made it clear he would leave the Temple if the Council denied him the opportunity to train the boy.

Blackmail, pure and simple, yet effective.

So baffling was the Jedi master's behavior, so puzzling and unyielding his stance, that it seemed best to keep both close. Not just the Jedi Order, but the Force had need of Qui-Gon Jinn – and perhaps, Anakin Skywalker as well. For now the solution was one few were happy with –except Qui-Gon Jinn and Anakin Skywalker. The two were all but inseparable.

They were the only happy two beings on the ship.

Obi-Wan was kept under sedation per the Jedi healer's recommendation. Qui-Gon fared better; he was doing so well he was merely confined to rest and advised to take it easy.

That had made it fair game to question the Jedi about his actions and motivations, but Qui-Gon had merely crossed his arms and stared at Mace with his "I've-already-explained-this-to-you-once and will-not-go-through-this-again" expression. If he felt any remorse for the consequences of his behavior, if not the behavior itself, he wasn't letting Mace know it.

It frustrated Mace no end. Yoda only grunted and counseled patience: he had temporarily accepted Qui-Gon's silence.

So disgusted with his good friend and his unwillingness or inability to explain his actions toward his former padawan, Mace had happily handed over the task to Ki-Adi-Mundi and Yaddle. If nothing else, they had not been witnesses to any of the past events, their viewpoints unlikely to be tainted by bias.

Instead he spent some of the slow, quiet hours on the journey back to the Temple sitting at Obi-Wan's side, compelled not by the Force, but by his conscience. He would have done the same for any injured colleague on a long, boring trip, he persuaded himself. He had done so before and might well do so again.

He wasn't the only one: sometimes Yoda joined him, sometimes replaced him.

If anyone noticed that the injured padawan was never left alone, not one of the other council members thought it worthy of mention.

At the moment, the main cabin was rather quiet, the occasional low voice not intruding upon Mace's musings. A datapad tapped unheeded against one knee, unread and forgotten. A soft "hmmph" and tremble in the Force intruded upon his thoughts. Mixed glee and exasperation trailed in the wake of a small Jedi who positioned herself in front of Mace and pointed a stubby claw at him. Mace swallowed a grin, for the exterior was as placid as ever, regardless of the inner state.

"Kicked out or merely seeking saner company, Yaddle?" Her discomfiture amused him. It should not, of course, but Force knew he had little enough to feel happy about.

"A stubborn man Qui-Gon is," Yaddle grumped, wrinkling her nose and sinking to a seat beside him. She grinned and nudged the other Jedi with her elbow, ignoring Mace's return glare. "Said it mattered not _why_; in the past all was. Bah! Irritated him I did, so much so that his tongue was loosened and eventually a bit of _why_ spilled from him. Strange, though, the feeling I get that even he does not fully understand why, only that he had his reasons." She scoffed. "Hard to believe I find _that_. Such a thing is not easy to forget, yet, Mace - the truth he tells."

"Well, now." Mace blew out a disbelieving breath. Had Qui-Gon actually managed to delude himself or was this a _convenient_ delusion, a way to deflect any wish for an explanation – a simple explanation? "Siths be damned." If she accepted that, well, so would he, however unwillingly. Yaddle would not be easily deceived.

At least she had gotten far more out of the Jedi master than anyone yet.

"Fully justified in his actions Qui-Gon believes himself to be." Yaddle held up a hand as Mace opened his mouth to protest. "Deceit within him there is none. Urged by the Force in all that he has done, he truly believes."

"Then he's deluded!"

Yaddle peered at Mace. "Is he? Unorthodox, Master Jinn has always been, but never deluded."

"What we've been able to independently corroborate of Obi-Wan's story does not contradict what I saw in his mind when I had him recount those events."

After a moment's silence, Yaddle tilted her head to one side. "Nor contradict Qui-Gon's, either."

Reluctantly, Mace had to agree once they again reviewed all that was known and each participant's recollections of said events. While Qui-Gon's version of events did match Obi-Wan's rather closely, the interpretation was so different that the truth was all but obscured.

The Jedi master was adamant he had felt the Force's hand guiding them to Tatooine; the same bright explosion of pure light seeking light. He had seen the shock of recognition tingle through Obi-Wan and his padawan's steadfast denial that he had felt it emanate from the small, compassionate boy who had saved them all – denial based on jealousy, obviously, for "there was no other explanation."

None at all.

In the boy's blinding presence, Obi-Wan had faded to inconsequence, even his petty rivalry and unfounded suspicions initially and all too easily dismissed until the Jedi master had finally seen Obi-Wan's insecurities as shadows of the dark, thrown into illumination by Anakin's light.

Shadows of the dark, only as yet, not true darkness, but Obi-Wan did not release them, but harbored them, and took them out upon a boy who had earned none of the enmity directed at him.

The shadows had only darkened with time, shadows that would in time dim the Chosen's One's own light were they not tamed and released – and they had not been, thus proving Obi-Wan no true Jedi. He had put his hurt preeminent above the hurt of others, not just once, but repeatedly.

It would be a shocking observation, if true. If anything, Kenobi was known to put others before himself, regardless of inner conflict.

In this case, the Jedi had the observations of neutral parties as well.

No one had disputed the strained relations between the two Jedi, but the Queen was certain that at no time had either Jedi actually behaved other than quite civilly towards others or each other, regardless of what dispute lay between them. That Padawan Kenobi had been quiet and sad-eyed, or Master Jinn quietly irritated had in no way disrupted the trip.

Despite her obvious fondness for the boy, the Queen had reluctantly agreed that the non-verbal communication had indicated some degree of animosity, though more on the boy Anakin's part towards the padawan than seemed warranted.

She had noticed Anakin's sneers and his superior smiles more than once, his ability to milk sympathy from the Jedi master if the padawan so much as looked at him.

She had noted Padawan Kenobi's attempts to mend fences and then gradual withdrawal from any interaction with either his master or the boy and had surmised that he had noticed that his presence was, not to put too fine a point on it, not welcomed.

Yoda and Mace had observed the boy's shocking rudeness for themselves when he had first burst in on Obi-Wan, sitting vigil by his master's side. Even with allowances for the circumstances, they found his behavior troubling for it had not improved with time.

Every interaction with the padawan had been discourteous at best.

Apparently, Qui-Gon had seen none of this. He had seen only a lonely boy who had had his feelings hurt time and again by Obi-Wan.

And that was that, as far as Qui-Gon was concerned.

Not one Council member would dispute the padawan's anger and dismay before the Council, yet unlike Qui-Gon, each had seen temper flare within the master as well. Each had also sensed the boy's turbulent emotions: bitterness and anger. Yet within all, other than a certain incivility they had chosen to overlook, behavior had been controlled when the emotions had not.

They could not fault the padawan, or the boy, when the older Jedi had been no less upset.

Qui-Gon, though, either refused to or could not see this. He had only seen confirmation of his own erroneous conclusions sufficient to sever all ties with his padawan, ample justification within his mind to sever even the master-padawan bond without due care.

Even when reminded that the dissolution of the bond could yet have permanent and disastrous results beyond that already incurred, the Jedi had calmly pointed out _he_ had managed to survive it without lasting harm.

The female Jedi was so indignant – sputtering her words, even - that Mace could only snort and be glad it was she, not he, who had spoken to Qui-Gon.

"Wished the Living Force had up and smacked him then, I did," Yaddle admitted. "As if his actions only himself affected. So point out the obvious I did: two parties there were to the bond. And Mace – when I pointed out how the effects had already proven far more severe on Obi-Wan who had already channeled the Force almost to his own destruction while saving Qui-Gon from almost certain death – it seemed he did not even care."

_Did not care_…. Yaddle slowly nodded; Mace had heard correctly. Qui-Gon not caring was, well, Mace cast about for an expression, and slowly settled on one, however preposterous.

It was beyond imagining.


	16. Home at the Temple

**Chapter 16. Home at the Temple**

Unlike the ceremonial pomp surrounding the arrival of the Jedi upon Naboo, their arrival at the Temple was somber and deliberately low key. The two injured Jedi were both whisked to the Healers Ward. An Initiate Master waited there to take temporary charge of the boy, for it was deemed best he not be separated from Qui-Gon's side immediately upon landing and given into the care of one who would be, to him, a complete stranger.

Whatever his grumblings that he could at least sit up, if not walk, to the Ward, Qui-Gon was quickly silenced by his new padawan's plea he take it easy and settled back on the repulsor stretcher with his arms folded over his chest. Young Anakin trotted at the Jedi master's side.

The little procession separated in the Ward, with Qui-Gon, Anakin in tow, taken into one room while the following repulsor stretcher with Obi-Wan continued down the hall.

"Careful, careful," Anakin shrilled as the Jedi master shifted into the waiting bed with just a little assistance. He did not quiet until shushed by Qui-Gon. Once settled in place, Qui-Gon laid a warm hand on Anakin's arm. "Ani, you can't stay here with me – but I don't think I'll be kept here too long. You'll be in the temporary care of the Initiate Master over there. Have patience; I'm sure they'll release me in a few days and we can begin your training."

Anakin stuck his chin out, his lips quivering. "Is _he_ going to be nearby?"

"He?" Qui-Gon paused, then for the merest fraction of a second his face almost crumpled before wiping blank in confusion. "I guess that depends on how you define 'near by' but not to worry; Obi-Wan's in no shape to upset you."

"I don't want _him_ to upset _you_, Master Qui-Gon."

Understanding broke over the Jedi master.

His padawan was concerned for his master; he was such a compassionate boy, but of course he had already known that. Needing to reassure the boy, Qui-Gon reached out and brushed his chin with a fond hand.

"Ani, Obi-Wan is in no shape to upset anyone. I know he's hurt you, but you cannot dwell on that – it seems the Force has seen to it that he has reaped what he sowed. We must both move on and let him recede into our past. We must focus only on the here and now - and on each other. You are my padawan as I am your master."

"Wizard!"

"Wizard, indeed." The Jedi master chuckled at his padawan's sudden enthusiasm. The weight of his years seemed lessened around the boy; he was now just as eagerly looking forward to the coming years as he had not so long ago dreaded them.

"Now, Master T'ikara here will introduce you to your age mates and you will stay in the Initiates Quarters for a short time. Make the most of it, Padawan, for you shall have little free time shortly." Qui-Gon lifted a hand to Anakin's cheek and lightly stroked it. "We shall have your braiding ceremony as soon as I'm on my feet."

Down the hall, Padawan Bant Eerin, on duty healer, waited. She steeled herself to react as a healer, not friend as the other repulsor stretcher passed by, but it was difficult. She had reviewed the med chart but that hadn't prepared her to see Obi-Wan as he looked now: pale, with bruised skin about his eyes and no Force presence to speak of. She had not expected to see him looking so incredibly young and battered.

Once he was transferred to a med bed and the attendants left, Bant slipped into the room and sat down by his side. She took one of his hands within her own. "Hey, Obi, you're home. You'll get better, I promise."

Healer Jorak finished updating his med chart and gazed a bit sympathetically at his fellow healer though he frowned slightly at her words.

"He'll get better," she said firmly, understanding the wordless exchange. "I didn't say he would be the same as before, or better or – or worse. Just…better than he is now. He has to believe that, as well, so I'm going to start reinforcing that with him, even now when he's sedated and unaware of anything."

"That's well and good, Padawan, but don't encourage him to strive to what might well be unrealistic goals; his lack of success will harm his recovery."

No matter Jorak's meant-to-be-reassuring words to the Council, Bant was well aware that the true test of her friend's recovery from the twin blows on Naboo was still to be determined.

Obi-Wan could not be shielded forever by Master Windu's mind block. Even now, it was being allowed to naturally dissolve under close monitoring.

It was hoped that since the physical damage was slowly repairing itself, potential mental damage might well be kept to a minimum if not staved off altogether. The unknown factor was the impact of the second, all but fatal injury.

Obi-Wan might well yet be permanently impaired.

Her nod of understanding prompted Jorak to add, "The Force echoes are baffling and unlike anything I have yet seen. Qui-Gon shows signs of spontaneous bond regeneration, yet Kenobi does not." He tapped his finger on the datapad in his hand. "We have too little data to predict what comes next, especially when we can't even explain how he kept Qui-Gon from dying – not even a trained healer would have been capable of what he did and quite frankly, Kenobi is not that powerful in the Force – no Jedi is."

Bant supposed she might care about that someday, but right now she was more concerned about Obi-Wan than anything he might have done, no matter how miraculous it may have been.

She could not restrain the question that burned within her – the question that could be asked for it did have an answer.

"Did…did his master truly break the bond – while Obi-Wan was channeling the Force into Qui-Gon?"

Her fellow healer hesitated, and then offered, a bit reluctantly to be sure, "He has all but admitted that to Master Yaddle; he has said he had his reasons for anything he may have done. We are not to judge…but the consequences we are here to fix, if possible."

His glance at the padawan made it quite clear just who and what that consequence was.

Bant bit her lip, trying to let her anger and confusion flow into the Force. Such behavior was not in character for the Jedi master – she knew that, but the truth was the truth, no matter how hard to accept.

Bant lifted Obi-Wan's limp hand and leaned her cheek against it. "I don't understand, Obi…just as I'm sure you don't. You and Qui-Gon have been so close for so long. I can almost believe – almost – that Qui-Gon might have set you aside if the Force truly asked it, but not without letting you know in private and not in front of the Council. He owed you that much, at least, and besides, that boy is still initiate age – there was time, plenty of time for you to be knighted, time to vacate that position before Anakin took it.

"I just want you to know that Garen, Reeft…all of your friends will stick by you and help you get better. They've made a promise to the Force, so you don't worry about anything but trying to heal, okay? Just make us one, too – you'll let us help you when you need our help."

Healer Jorak nodded. "He'll need plenty of support and understanding."

"He'll have it," Bant said resolutely. She stood and looked down at Obi-Wan's peaceful countenance. "I've gotta go now, Obi; I've other patients, but I'm here within call should you need me. I'll check on you a bit later. I want you to see a friendly face when you first wake." With a last squeeze of her hand, Bant left.

Obi-Wan slept on.

* * *

Temple speculation as to what happened, and why, continued.

Despite the Council's best intentions, it seemed most of the Temple had known about the Council meeting, of Qui-Gon casting his padawan off and the Council's refusal to allow the padawan to take the trials even before the Council left en masse for Naboo.

Sympathy generally lay with the padawan.

Right or wrong, Qui-Gon Jinn's pattern of obeying the Force at all cost, no matter who was hurt in the process was unpopular, disliked not just because the Jedi master was often tactless and roughshod in execution of its will, but because he was always so certain only his interpretation if its will was valid.

That did not mean sympathy lay entirely with the padawan.

Padawan Kenobi was generally conceded to be quite capable, if a bit headstrong. His generally reserved manner and self-contained personality meant he was well enough liked but not especially popular. Those who were not privileged to see his prankish side thought him rigid and unyielding; those who did not understand his dry wit thought him sarcastic and somewhat lacking in compassion.

Few knew details, only of the departure of the Council to Naboo. Now all had returned, along with the small boy rumored to have been the impetus for Qui-Gon's repudiation of his padawan before the Council.

The Council was not blind to this.

Bowing to the inevitable, the Council released as little information as possible to protect privacy while hoping to forestall incorrect rumors: Qui-Gon Jinn had been severely injured in battle, the padawan damaged as well, and the young boy in Master Jinn's custody had been accepted for training in recognition of his feats on Naboo and was to be made welcome.

Yet the rumors continued unabated: hushed speculation abounded.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had slain a Sith – and had slain his chances at knighthood. Why else was the Council otherwise silent on his status, keeping him listed on the roster of padawans?

Just what had happened on Naboo?


	17. One Unhappy Jedi Master then Two

**Chapter 17. One Unhappy Jedi Master, Then Two**

"You are either a fool or senile, Qui-Gon," a certain Jedi master snapped to himself, setting down a datapad with a thump once he had gleaned everything from it he could. Qui-Gon's latest acquisition was a common street urchin – a former slave – and surprisingly, an already powerful entity in the Force. No doubt taking him under the Jedi wing even if he exceeded the age limit was wise – but the means! Did he truly mean to ruin Kenobi or was the damage merely a byproduct of his obsession with prophecy?

Prophecy was only a tool to fool the gullible or wishful thinking: manipulation with vague hints that could be interpreted in thousands of ways to suit the listener's predisposition.

And a means to hurt the innocent.

Qui-Gon Jinn had been known to irritate plenty of Jedi masters. It was an immutable fact of life to their way of thinking – he would irritate them in the now and he would irritate them in the future. Until recent events he had not utterly baffled nor disgusted any one of them; after all, Jedi prided themselves on tolerant acceptance of even that or who they did not understand.

Mace Windu had been the first.

No longer was Master Windu alone in that distinction.

So, too, was Master Dooku, off-planet. He was not just unhappy, but indignant. The Holonet had carried word of the events on Naboo; discreet inquiry had informed him of the Jedi's unacknowledged role and the breach between master and padawan. He took the latter as a personal affront, for it was Dooku, much to his own surprise, who had long ago urged his former padawan to build a closer relationship with Kenobi. That advice, so strongly rejected when given, had proven correct.

Jinn and Kenobi had become what Dooku had foreseen: a strong team, a credit to the Order. A lineage of which he could be proud, when once he had foreseen only disaster ahead if Qui-Gon continued to keep his padawan at arm's reach. Even Qui-Gon had all but acknowledged – finally – the advice had been sound.

Just before the Naboo mission Dooku had managed to catch up with his former padawan for a long overdue and relatively cordial visit.

Qui-Gon had been feeling his age.

"_Obi-Wan," he said ruefully, "soon should face his Trials. I shall miss his companionship, especially since we are too often now separated. I already cherish those times we are not."_

"_You are fond of the boy." And Qui-Gon had nodded, hearing no condemnation in the words but satisfaction; easily admitting such though there had never been much in the way of open affection in their own relationship. _

Dooku had had little patience with affection in those days; such he had believed was a distraction a Jedi could not indulge. His views had only softened over time, not changed, but he had foreseen the need for affection between Jinn and Kenobi for each to achieve what was widely acknowledged to be one of the most successful and creative Jedi teams in decades. He did not see it as a rebuttal of his own earlier views when Dooku and Jinn had been master and padawan but rather that of a master strategist who adapted tactics to fit circumstances.

They had been two different teams, Dooku and Jinn, then Jinn and Kenobi.

Dooku and Jinn had made an effective team. They respected each other, but their relationship had been little more than teacher and student. An indulgent master would have encouraged Qui-Gon to waste even more precious time on things and beings not related to his training. Or to his duty.

An affectionate master, Dooku had believed, was an indulgent one.

His padawan hadn't needed spoiling, but a firm hand: discipline, not affection. He had been far too easily distracted and sidetracked by some need of the moment. Maturity would tame those tendencies; his knighting would see them under his control or eliminated. Knight Jinn might choose occasionally to immerse himself in the Living Force; if so, it would be a conscious choice and not an uncontrollable urge.

Dooku could now admit that a mild affection had crept into their relationship long before Qui-Gon's knighting, an affection he had kept under strict control during their years together. Years later, their relationship remained little changed in practice: it had remained amiable, but emotionally distant.

Dooku had been relegated to the outer fringes of his former padawan's life and thus to both of his grand-padawans' lives and training as well.

And so he had watched helplessly, unable to intervene, as affection _had_ led to indulgence.

That he had been correct did not please Dooku. Qui-Gon had treated Xanatos as a favored child, only to have his heart shattered by betrayal. He had not sown the seeds of his destruction, but he had inadvertently fertilized them with affection.

And suffered.

The Jedi so attuned to life became cut off from life; a shell of a man, rigid in his duty, unbending. Cold. He became – a Jedi and lost – the man he had once been, aloof from emotion, dispassionate, nearly severed from the Living Force that had once so dismayed Dooku and which had proven to be his very sustenance.

Until another boy had somehow snuck undetected through the cracks of the Jedi master's stubborn determination to live a life alone and refused to be dislodged. Qui-Gon had met his match – and simply stopped fighting.

Or as he had explained his change of heart to Yoda, "To save an entire planet, he offered me his life; I would be churlish to refuse it." Qui-Gon had not seen the boy's startled glance at his new master; the sweep of the boy's lashes against his cheek as the words registered, or the biting of the lips that said his joy had fled, replaced by uncertainty and doubt.

Yoda had, and knew the boy now wondered if his apprenticeship was nothing more than repayment of a debt.

The spirited, eager young soul turned himself into a dutiful, self-effacing padawan as Qui-Gon turned into a dutiful, _proper_ Jedi master – but the joy that had once bubbled deep within each soul no longer sparkled in the Force.

Yoda had shared his unease with Dooku not long after. "A good team Qui-Gon and young Kenobi make but – share a harmony of spirit they do not." The little master's hands had tightened on his gimer stick as sorrow glinted within his ancient eyes. "The shadow of Xanatos it is."

Dooku understood what Yoda alluded to – and upon reflection, surprised himself with the realization that this bond needed something few Jedi needed.

Affection.

Not only would this boy thrive on affection if given, but so too would Qui-Gon, and as both thrived, so, too, would the Order and the Force. Affection led only to indulgence if one only took and one only gave.

Unlike Xanatos, affection for this one would not spoil; it would goad to new heights of striving – perhaps too much so, but better to strive to excel than to strive to be spoilt. The Kenobi boy would take affection as a spur to do more, be more, achieve more and Qui-Gon – ah, his padawan would raise a Jedi worthy of the master – and at last live rather than wither away.

The seeds of affection had already been sown yet lay unharvested. Kenobi was more than a debt yet unacknowledged as such.

Yet Dooku had watched the distance widen, not narrow, as Qui-Gon fought to keep the Kenobi boy at arm's length. This boy, this padawan, refused to relinquish his grasp, never abusing his position and giving all that he had for each scrap of attention he was meagerly doled out.

Dooku, like Yoda, had been one of the few to have seen that this otherwise unremarkable boy might someday grow into a remarkable Jedi – with the right master to guide him.

Qui-Gon Jinn had always stood out as one that would make knight with no difficulty; he had radiated strength and potential even as a youngling. Obi-Wan Kenobi at first merely charmed with his innocence and good nature, a boy all but overlooked except by those receptive to the barely imperceptible. Careful scrutiny by those who choose to look deeper revealed unplumbed depths beneath the cloak of ordinariness, small moments that tingled through the Force.

Dooku had dearly wished to claim the boy himself, but the Force had said _not yours is he to train_, as it had to Yoda. He was to be Jinn's apprentice and Jinn's alone - only Qui-Gon had been deaf to its will, unreceptive to its nudges and blind to the _rightness_ of that pairing intended by the Force.

Because of Xanatos.

_With his padawan's obstinate insistence on ignoring first the Force and now his master, Dooku knew not what to do. What to even say or refrain from saying. He knew no longer how to connect to Qui-Gon; that strand had never been much than a bond of convenience, of necessity. His padawan had always been closer to Dooku's own master, Yoda, but even that old troll had been unable to reach past the shuttered heart and mind. No one had, in part or whole._

_Except Kenobi._

_Rejuvenation for Qui-Gon's wounded mind and spirit had arrived in the form of this curious and intelligent initiate – too talented to be discarded to the Service Corps yet doomed to such. A waste indeed, Dooku had thought, dismayed as much at the Force's occasional revelations regarding this one as of the Force's tantalizing with no intention of delivering upon that promise._

_He should have had more faith in the Force and a young boy who did not accept defeat easily._

_With the tenacity and determination of a seasoned knight and the naiveté and pure faith of a young boy, Kenobi had managed to breach the outer walls of the master's defenses. Qui-Gon now no longer stood alone. He stood with Kenobi at his side yet an arm's length apart. He had taken the boy as his learner, of his own free will._

_His apprentice, his padawan in title, but granted the position of learner, only learner to the master. The inner walls still held the pain of betrayal in – and away at the same time. _

_Kenobi had found his place at Qui-Gon's side, but not in his heart._

_If Kenobi did not succeed – did not break through those shields - two would suffer. Yoda counseled patience. _

Their last true argument had been over the boy.

"_You accepted the boy as your apprentice, now treat him with the respect any being deserves, the respect you give all other beings," Dooku scolded, having held his tongue for weeks. He would speak for the Force, since the Force was not getting through to Qui-Gon. "He deserves more than cool indifference; he deserves at least kindness. Even I extended you that courtesy, if not the warmth you felt lacking between us."_

_Cool eyes had risen to his. No shrug, not even a quirk of his lips – no, not even an acceptance or denial of the words, only a mere acknowledgment that the words had been heard, considered, and duly dismissed. Dooku had long ago let go the admittedly perverse idea this sight was fascinating – much as watching a multi-speeder wreck occur before one's eyes was fascinating and horrible both - to see Qui-Gon show such a pure lack of emotion. _

_By now he found it disturbing. _

_No emotion, as if merely discussing the latest vagaries of climate control. This went far beyond Jedi calmness, the "Jedi ideal." Not serenity, no, just pure detachment. _

_This was not the Qui-Gon he had raised, nor really, the Jedi he had once meant to raise him to be. _

_The silence, brittle as frozen ice, had finally shattered with calm, quiet words. An explanation, of sorts. Dooku supposed he should count himself lucky for that, at least._

"_I do not raise my voice to him; I do not censure and rebuke him for what he does not yet know. I teach him, Master; I do not wish nor need to befriend him."_

_The voice was just as cool, as impersonal as – as a Jedi maintaining neutrality amongst bickering opponents. Taking no sides, causing no offense…all business and no pleasure. Not the voice of Qui-Gon Jinn…the non-conformist Jedi who had once delighted in much – and now in little._

"_What lessons do you teach him, he who is your apprentice but a boy as well? Will you teach him to be a man – or let him learn on his own? What kind of Jedi will you teach him to be? One as you thought me or one as you once were not so long ago?"_

"_Am I not now the Jedi you tried to mold me into?" The rebuke in the words stung. It held some truth, however minor. Calmly, too calmly, Qui-Gon added, "Xanatos did what you never could – he burnt out all of me that was not 'Jedi.' You should approve of the Jedi I am now."_

"_I do not," Dooku snapped bluntly. "I took a boy and made a Jedi of him. I was proud that you found a way to be that Jedi and still be Qui-Gon Jinn, my once Living Force-attuned now Force-blind apprentice!"_

"_I shall train him, Master; I shall not befriend him."_

_Age had only made Qui-Gon more obstinate. Dooku's lips thinned. _

"_You shall then be a fool and the ruination of your legacy. You will ruin the _both_ of you – or you will find self-redemption and reward beyond imagination if you do. Can't you see how much of himself he gives to you – gives up for you –and you give him what – silence, faint words of praise? This one will exceed all expectations when he has your support and approval – great Force, Qui-Gon, can you not see for all your penchant for pathetic life forms, you now all but ignore the most pathetic, this boy you seem to barely tolerate?"_

_With a final sigh, Dooku said softly the last word he would say on the subject, "Give him up, my padawan; he deserves better of you than you seem willing to give."_

Yet it had not been until Qui-Gon nearly lost the boy by indifference had he realized what Yoda and Dooku had long seen: the hand of the Force at work. By then all but banished from his padawan's life, Dooku had watched from afar as coldness turned to reserve to warmth. Teacher and student, still, yet finally companions. Friends. And he had been pleased.

Dooku and Jinn, a good team, had led to Jinn and Kenobi, a great team. The lineage of Yoda – Dooku – Jinn – Kenobi – was a proud lineage, a good lineage, a lineage worthy of the Force.

What now of the future – that future the Force had told him each would affect?


	18. When Memories & Realities Collide

**Chapter 18. When Memories and Reality Collide**

Dreams and memories passed Qui-Gon's time, only fading to inconsequence when his padawan was allowed to visit and chatter the details of his day – airing all the small grips and grievances that seemed so magnified in the eyes of the young and the lonely…

…_D'eandre stared at him – and sneezed_ (Qui-Gon hid a smile)

…_N'tal would not switch beds with him and would not say why _("you will soon move into padawan quarters," he placated the boy and earned a smile in return)

…_Kendra - smiled every time she looked at him_ (that seemed the worst horror Anakin could imagine, no matter how Anakin had so delighted in Padmé's smiles)

Each visit was like the last: _No one likes me_, Anakin would wail, plopping onto Qui-Gon's lap only to be cheered by a hug, all the petty irritations of fitting into a new life squeezed from memory.

Beneath his own delight was the simple satisfaction that _he_ was now _needed_ once more, not some relic to be discarded like a piece of outgrown clothing. Qui-Gon basked in Anakin's light, this treasure of the Force given into his custody.

He was the Force's servant and he would devote himself to do all that the Force commanded of him and more – nurture and guide the Chosen One into his full glory.

He hungered to set forth on the Force's path.

The irony of his situation didn't fail to strike Qui-Gon; he who had always counseled that one should live in the here and now and let the future worry about itself. So here he was, impatient with the limitations of the present. He wanted to get on with the future yet was stuck in bed to rest and recuperate from the past.

With little to occupy him in the long, lonely hours when he lay alone, urged to rest, his memories wandered the aisles of time – playing, replaying, or anticipating moments of his life. He little doubted his recent visit with his old master had stirred up a lot of otherwise forgotten memories – many good, a few not. Some brought smiles, some brought frowns. A few prickled his eyes with regrets; those few he chose to relegate to the dustbins – curiosities to be again discarded for of what use were regrets? Regret was nothing more than wishing one could change the past – and the past was forever gone and out of reach.

But the Force had its own ideas; it controlled the images that whispered across his mind, those of the past and of the present, scrolling almost too fast to react. _Let them flow… remember them now as you experienced them then_…and so he did, finding in them peace and contentment; much joy as well, these snapshots of a good life, by and large.

He had always found delight in things around him, even with a cold and stern – but gruffly courteous – master. His old teacher, if never really a friend or confidante, had been a large part of his life for many years. It had been good to see the man – even more distinguished and dignified now; still every bit the proper Jedi Master regardless of any potential – and in Qui-Gon's opinion, unlikely - change in that status.

That visit was just before the first trip to Naboo.

They had met on Serrano, Dooku's planet of birth, in the family estate. The tenth Count, a childless cousin had recently died. As the nearest eligible relative, Petr Dooku would inherit the title and lands – but not if he remained within the Jedi Order. He had been made aware of his status as heir-apparent half a decade earlier.

"_I decided then not to reject it outright, but let the future take its own path," _Dooku had explained to Qui-Gon.He had chosen to make no hasty decision since none was yet needed – there were other males in the line of descent should he chose to renounce family for the Force when the time came. The Jedi had raised him, but disillusionment had been creeping in for some time as Qui-Gon had been well aware; few were the secrets within the Order.

The time had come – he had just a month to make his choice. He had chosen to spend it on Serrano. _"One does not renounce any option until one understands all of one's options"_ he had explained upon his padawan's arrival.

The invitation and its purpose both were unexpected and to Qui-Gon's surprise, he had accepted with little hesitation. He was between missions, alone in quarters that echoed hollowly to his senses with his padawan so often away now on his own missions; a man restless, weary, and wondering if this was the shape of life to come.

Two men, each growing older, each contemplating the future – somehow, it seemed right.

_Over several glasses of distinguished and fine wine – after all, a Jedi sacrificed much but one should never drink swill if alternatives were available, each had agreed - they touched on many things – discussed the Council's slow slide from servants of the Force to servants of the politicians, something that alarmed them both. Qui-Gon was not as disillusioned – yet – as his master; he still had faith in the Force that the Jedi would correct their course even if the Republic did not. It seemed Dooku was more disillusioned than ever, considering his next words._

"I've been speaking to others weary of this bickering and posturing, this endless game where the desired result is moving nowhere."

"You desire to become an agent of change – a 'politician' perhaps, my master? Is not such beneath the presumed next Count of Serrano?"

Dooku raised an eyebrow and twirled his glass almost as if he had been considering the idea. Qui-Gon's eyes widened - could such an impossibility actually be under contemplation? - until Dooku leaned back, a negligent wave of his hand dismissing such absurdities as leaping into the political arena. Both had seen political ideals crushed under political reality far too often to take such seriously.

However, one question hung unanswered as yet - was his master seriously considering leaving the Order? For a title and – he had to admit - a cellar of exceptionally fine wine? 

_Neither chose to address that question, so instead they spoke of lessons learned and lessons taught, of padawans growing up and themselves growing older than either cared to admit. Qui-Gon knew he had been feeling old, of late. The passage of time creaked in his bones and the stiffness in his muscles each time his padawan extended a hand to pull him upright those increasingly more common times the master found defeat at the end of his padawan's lightsaber._

He still remembered the first time: the shock within them both and his "well done" slap on Obi-Wan's back; his padawan's slow and shy grin. Sorrow had warred with pride that day, just as amusement had warred with relief not long after when his padawan was unable to break through his defense and was instead the one with a blade at his throat.

"I am still the master, am I not?" he had challenged, a glint in his eyes.

Laughing eyes had looked into his and steadied into a gaze that saw too much; a formal bow once he had gained his feet had surprised him. "You will always be."

"Brat." But he knew then he was not the victor at all, not in the way he had thought. He had gained a far more precious prize instead.

Not just "brat," but "insolent whelp" had come to mind more and more often, though; a buffer, Qui-Gon supposed, against the ache of knowing he would soon be alone, in the twilight of his life.

The limitless energy of a young man in the prime of his life, face yet unlined with the soul-deep weight of experience – no, only the temporary creases of puzzlement or laughter that did not etch deep - reminded him he was past that stage of life. He would never be that way again. Youth had passed him by; youth now threatened to depress him – even that depression a sign of too many missions, too many years, too little rest.

How ironic, how tragic, that the gentle soul that had comforted with its very presence now left dismay in its absence.

"Young one," once affectionate; "young one," now a reminder – or his wish to stop time?

"Be mindful of the Living Force, Padawan," ah yes; _"worry ill becomes a Jedi, Obi-Wan," _– oh how those phrases had sharpened his tongue. "_Release your anxieties."_

A murmured, "Yes, Master," always followed; a sincere desire to do as commanded – even as the master illogically wished Obi-Wan would affirm himself, not his master. He could not be set free, not if he was not free to assert himself.

Holding on…or letting go. Pushing away and squeezing too hard. Wanting to see Obi-Wan lead his own life – and wishing to keep him within his own.

The Force had solved his conflict. It had led him – to Anakin.

The "Chosen One."

A small spitfire, a mop-headed boy with a smile and heart as large as the Force, just as untamed and free-spirited as the master had once been, oh, so many years ago. This boy rekindled his own youth and enthusiasm.

The Jedi master tingled with eagerness as he thought of Anakin and the boy's remarkable talents. Only one youngling before him had shown such promise – and had betrayed his gift for worldly riches and pleasures. He had delighted in gambling, in drinking, in womanizing while outwardly maintaining a disdain for such worldly things.

Disdain. Like arrogance, cruelty, indifference – all were words that described Xanatos. Deceitful. Xan allowed himself _indulgences_. Only years later had Qui-Gon realized to what extent.

There had never been mirth in his eyes, as there had been in the padawan who followed him. Obi-Wan had been a gentle soul with a wry wit. Obi-Wan…who was his padawan no longer. A strange ache spread through Qui-Gon, built of sorrow and regrets and - . "No," Qui-Gon shook his head; no, he didn't want to feel the tug of what was past and would have been gone anyway. That time was past. Gone. He himself had made it so. Shattered it by – "Don't do this to me, don't!" he murmured to the Force; these were memories he had never meant to recall, never to relive.

Memories that had twisted from pleasure to pain as realization – the enormity of what had transpired slowly began to seep in. "No!"

He would deny he was the cause; he had had justification.

Obi-Wan had defied him; had sided with the Council – against the Force.

Yet the memory of a tear slipping free from pained eyes rose before him, the tear that had caressed his cheek as he lay dying from a Sith's blade in Obi-Wan's arms. He had loved those eyes, that window into everything that Obi-Wan was. Everything he felt shone through them so clearly. Loyalty, honesty, faithfulness. Affection even when he had hurt the boy. So many times he had hurt the boy, but the boy had always hidden his hurt behind his loyalty – no, behind a façade.

He had to remember that.

He had finally seen beneath that façade.

There was no need to ache for what he thought lost as long as he remembered it had never truly existed. Why ache at all when he could focus ahead?

On Anakin.

His gift from the Force. 


	19. Drifting in the Vast Sea Without a Care

**Chapter 19. Drifting in the Vast Sea Without a Care in the World**

It was somewhat pleasant here amidst the clouds, or waves, he wasn't sure which – painless, aimless drifting... comforting. Nothing really intruded and he rather liked it that way, yet it was a bit lonely with only his skittish thoughts to keep him company.

Somehow that seemed all wrong, though, for he should have something besides his thoughts; something he relied on was missing.

He was alone.

Even at the edge of thought, ever at the edge of awareness, he knew. Something or someone was not there, where that something or someone should be.

And that meant he was alone.

He preferred to dream, of whatever that was rather than whatever it was not.

But one could not dream forever. Dreams passed in time…and he didn't want to pass with them. So he lingered, watching his dreams from afar.

_He was a child – biting his lower lip as he concentrated on adding one more block to the tower before him – giggling when the tower didn't collapse – chest heaving in small sobs when Bruck "accidentally" tripped over it –_

_Finding himself – now a young boy of perhaps five – facing Master Yoda with wide eyes and mashed tubers stuck in his hair, the victorious winner of a crèche food fight and unwitting source of the same dab dribbling down the old Jedi's face. _

"_You coulda ducked," was all he could think to squeak. "Master."_

_All the ancient master had said, eyes twinkling, was "Coulda, shoulda, didn't. Enjoy a good food fight I do," and waded in. The battle was again on. This time, Master Yoda won, the crèche master was quietly horrified, and the younglings giggled even through the clean up._

"Having a pleasant dream, Obi?" A voice intruded, receded as a whisper or a hand brushed his face.

_Despair weighed him down as he trudged to the transport, Bandomeer his destination. His journey to knighthood had dead-ended in a burst of justified anger at Bruck; anger he could not afford to indulge, justified or not. His fault, in the end, for he had had the ability, if not the self-control, to avoid the fateful actions that had doomed him._

"Is he in pain? Another seizure?"

"A nightmare, I think, perhaps reliving a bad memory. Don't cry, Obi, don't cry –"

_Fingering his braid, still not quite believing. Qui-Gon had rescued his heart from despair and his body from exile in the Agri-Corps. Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a Jedi. Qui-Gon Jinn had sworn to that._

_Delight and pain, joy and sorrow. No experience was solely one or the other._

_Siri – pain-in-the-posterior fellow padawan; Siri – the rival that had become a friend. Siri – whom he had come to love._

_Friendship was irretrievably transformed by three little words. Words that shattered both their hearts just as their hearts made themselves known. _

_Siri…and he had levered himself away from her arms and left because what had started as mere pleasure had become a coming together in love._

_Other arms had comforted and consoled him: those of his master. _

_He remembered Qui-Gon's arms around him, silent, for a young man's heartache needed no words of sympathy, lending his strength until Obi-Wan could find his own. _

"Shh, it's okay, I'm holding you; I'm right here."

_Sacrifices and rewards, such was a Jedi's life. Laughter and tears…but here, an observer, he neither laughed nor wept. He merely…existed._

Occasionally a muffled sound – a voice, he thought - would wash over him and he would know he wasn't really quite alone; occasionally something brushed his forehead or his hand and he would know someone watched over him, but such moments were fleeting and rare – and insufficient to fully bring him back to that other world.

Like driftwood upon a vast sea, borne hither and yon by the currents, the waves were inexorably bringing him closer to shore, to be deposited unceremoniously amongst the flotsam and debris, discarded remnants of something once with a name and a meaning.

All in all, he preferred to be adrift, aloof from that world, but that world kept reaching for him. Words started to make sense, if he just listened hard enough.

"_Obi…it's Bant, do you hear me?" _He wrinkled his forehead: he knew a Bant, was Bant with him? Why Bant? Was he this "Obi"?

It was all rather muddled…but he'd be this "Obi" if it made this "Bant" happy. "Uhh…" and there was a feeling of gentleness on his face, a sound like a soft breath.

"_Do you think you'll wake soon?"_

"Uhnn…" He might have nodded; he might not have. It was all a dream so it didn't really matter if he did or did not.

"_Sleepy Obi…the drugs are wearing off…I'll be close, Obi, always close."_

"'gooo'."

And in time he did waken, though it all still seemed a dream.

Without knowing why, exactly, he however truly knew now that things were far different – _he_ felt different. A shell of himself concealing only emptiness. Even at his most insecure, he had always known who he was, even if he thought no one else knew. Now he wasn't sure if anyone knew, least of all himself.

He had no clear memory why he was here at the Temple, and the past few days were hazy, full of half-remembered images and sounds.

"M-master…?" His first words, even before his eyes were fully open.

Yoda's ears drooping in response: the first thing he remembered seeing once they had fluttered open.

"Qui-Gon…here you will not find him." The first words he remembered hearing. The tears running down his cheeks when he remembered – and the gentle touch of Yoda's hand – not brushing the tears away, no, simply resting on his arm.

And the silence…so loud it thundered in his ears. No soft rumble of his name in his master's deep voice… no soft caress of the Force…until –

"Here I am for you…here I will remain."

He covered his eyes with one hand and wept, though he did not know quite why. He had again forgotten.

* * *

Stubborn determination alone could not hurry healing, nor eager anticipation. Yet how else to explain Qui-Gon's remarkable recovery from a wound that should have killed him? The healers still could not satisfactorily explain the _how_ of his survival. However he had managed it, the padawan had not as such healed the wound; Obi-Wan had only channeled enough life force to keep the Jedi master alive until his own body was able to start the healing process after true medical intervention.

The padawan did not fare so well. Consciousness was fleeting and uncertain, his awareness of his surroundings in doubt.

He responded to stimuli but seemed unable to interact with anyone – or unwilling. As he was still on strong pain medicine, no one could say if his senses were dulled by drugs or his injury.

When he was awake, his eyes seemed to be searching, always searching, and when he seemed to recognize that whatever he searched for was not present, he would close his eyes and drift back to sleep.

Silent, he was always silent. Only an occasional tear spoke for him. "Not of pain," the healers said. Not the kind of pain they could heal, at least. They could do little as yet, only wipe the tears away or squeeze a limp hand. It was too early for cognitive tests, no way yet to know if a depletion of oxygen had so damaged Obi-Wan's brain that this all but comatose state of being was temporary – or permanent.

* * *

Master Healer al'Kim Hitori gazed thoughtfully at Yoda and Mace. Both Jedi masters came often, sometimes together and sometimes not, to check on one patient. About the other they merely inquired as if politeness alone required it. It was not difficult to discern where their concern lay – and he still lay withdrawn and silent, barely communicative.

Barely, for he had whispered one word before sleep had again claimed him. One word, but indicative of little as yet. Had young Kenobi tried to communicate or had a whisper – a hope – just slipped his lips?

That was the question they were discussing: just how aware of his surroundings he was.

"Spoke a word to me he did. Recovering, is he?" Yoda looked hopeful, if one went by the curl of his ears or the soft light in his eyes. Some had speculated years ago that Yoda would take Kenobi as his padawan: there had been a connection between the two for the entirety of Kenobi's life that many believed was a sign of the Force's favoring their pairing.

That early of a connection between a master and future padawan was not unknown and thus accepted; the only surprise was that the Force chose the grand master of the Order years after he had knighted his last padawan – and that in time Master Jinn, not Yoda, became Kenobi's master. That pairing had been an outstanding success after a few rough patches in the early years - until just recently.

The healer leaned back in his seat, choosing his words carefully. "He spoke one word, 'master.' It was a question was it not, perhaps a reflex more than a conscious utterance?"

"Wept he did once I spoke to him." The ears curled forwarded and drooped; Yoda sounded sad as he leaned on his gimer stick. "Knew he did, then if not before, enough to weep."

Weeping alone meant little, al'Kim already knew.

A patient with damage to the cerebral cortex might show complex brain stem reflexes such as swallowing, guttural vocalizations, and spontaneous roving eye movements, easily misinterpreted by a layperson as evidence of awareness. Kenobi had no such identifiable damage, yet there was little doubt he had suffered some degree of diffuse cerebral hypoxia when he had ceased breathing on Naboo.

How much damage he sustained would determine how quickly – or completely – he recovered.

"Such a response could be either a response or a reflex to the trauma. He's shown no periods of true lucidity so far. The truth is," he hesitated before bluntly stating, "we don't know yet how well or how soon he will recover – and to what degree."

"Strong young Obi-Wan is, soon he will reconnect to those around him."

The healer wished he felt the same certainty that suffused Yoda's voice. The ancient Jedi was not prone to bouts of wishful thinking, but by no means was he always right.

"With all due respect, Master Yoda, he is not responding well at all and it has nothing to do with internal strength," al'Kim began cautiously. "Should he be awake and communicative by now? Probably, if we were just to look at his last injury, or the trauma of the bond severance. But we cannot look at each event in isolation. I expect confusion and lethargy when he wakes, interspersed with bouts of depression or anger."

"Hope I shall continue to hold. Young and resilient this one is; rests in the Hands of the Force he does."

As a healer and a Jedi, al'Kim knew non-healers were all too apt to be overly optimistic regarding the Force's actions regarding the injured or sick. Master Yoda was no exception.

"They all do," he said, pointing a long finger at the ancient Jedi. "Do you want hope – or plain speaking?"

"Speak both you can," Yoda said placidly. "Opposites they are not."

Despite himself, al'Kim's lips twitched.

"We hope his brain is not permanently impaired, from either lack of oxygen or the Force surge. We won't know until he really wakes." As Mace was about to speak, the healer interjected, "Tests and scans do not reveal everything, Master Windu, though they are better when looking at the brain than the mind."

Both Jedi nodded in understanding.

"In the Force's hands we then leave him – and yours," Yoda pronounced, getting stiffly to his feet.


	20. What Pattern Doth Life Take?

**Thought I'd surprise everyone with another update - or maybe that's frustrate everyone with certain characters.**

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**Chapter 20. What Pattern Doth Life Take?**

Anakin Skywalker was frustrated and unhappy. He hated that feeling – it made him feel small and unimportant.

He had been important on Tatooine and on Naboo. He had been the center of his group of friends and he had been at the center of freeing Naboo. He had had worth, he, Anakin Skywalker, son of a slave and a slave himself.

Only one set of chains remained and one day he would be free of those as well. That day he would be acclaimed a hero, when he freed the shackled and punished the wicked, that day he held dominion over the power within him.

Qui-Gon would teach him how to harness that power – all of it.

But he hadn't expected to feel this miserable. He was being educated in academics when he wished to be educated in the Force.

That, perhaps, he might have been able to deal with, but he dealt with something even worse: humiliation. The "Hero of Naboo" was stuck with a bunch of young initiates – his "age mates." Anakin hated it – and he hated them.

With Qui-Gon in the Healers Ward, the Council had thought this placement appropriate – Anakin would get to know the younglings his age while at the same exposing the young boy to the discipline and behavior Jedi younglings were expected to conform to.

Discipline, perhaps not strange for one once a slave, was something Anakin despised and resisted. Outward conformity was belayed by internal rebellion, especially now that he was supposedly free and no longer at the mercy of others – or so the Jedi believed who had hoped to ease his transition. They did not know that Watto had been largely an indifferent owner, berating with words but never beatings. Anakin's Force sensitivity had not allowed him to manipulate a Force-immune Toydarian, but the Force had served as an accurate barometer as to what words and actions of his would influence Watto.

He had learned the art of manipulation well; not just with Watto, but others equally as well.

His life, his talents, and his education had seen to that. That education had begun before he toddled and while his mind was still young and unformed. Like all youngsters, he eagerly absorbed knowledge, and much of his new knowledge was planted deep: knowledge of how to manipulate, to reach for what he wanted, and to let nothing stand in his way.

He had been skillfully taught from afar, without his knowledge or acquiescence in the beginning. His instinctive abilities had been channeled without conscious knowledge – what Anakin desired, Anakin could have – and Anakin had wanted much, living a life in which he had little to call his own.

What he had wanted most of all - craved – was acceptance and respect – and he had learned young that such demanded Power.

His new age mates did not automatically grant it. Boasting of his heroics – as they saw it – did not endear him to them.

Their natural wariness of a total stranger suddenly introduced into and expected to fit into their presence only increased with Anakin's bragging that he, a boy raised outside the Order for whom rules were broken was now Qui-Gon's padawan as well as the Boonta Eve pod-racing champion and destroyer of a droid-control ship.

In their eyes this exception to rules that guided the Order for years expected them to make room for him rather than him trying to fit in. It didn't help that he was officially a padawan after no training at all though they'd been working towards that goal for years.

This outsider, this anything but meek and humble newcomer, had displaced Senior Padawan Kenobi and claimed the master as his own. Such was a calamity; a catastrophe one could not truly comprehend, for to become a padawan was an honor to which all aspired and to be dismissed, a disgrace.

Ordinarily.

Yet this setting aside was rumored to be without cause, and so these younglings rallied to the padawan's side. They knew Obi-Wan Kenobi. He, along with other senior padawans and the occasional knight, worked often with this age group. They admired and liked him; his disgrace became theirs.

What was now to become of said padawan?

None knew; speculation ran rampant. Would he be assigned a new master? Finish his training under the oversight of senior Jedi without a master to call his own? Leave the Order by choice or express command of the Council?

None welcomed this last possibility, especially those who had dared to hope that Obi-Wan, once knighted and ready to mentor a padawan of his own, would be looking amongst their ranks within a few years. This interloper might well dash more than Padawan Kenobi's dreams but theirs as well, and so they did not look kindly on the interloper who had hurt this Jedi and might well be the cause of his dismissal from the Order.

Some had dared to voice their thoughts, after Anakin's arrival and blunt statement of his status within the Order.

"_But, but Obi-Wan is Master Jinn's padawan," one confused initiate pointed out._

"_Until I came along," Anakin asserted._

"_Why are you so special? Master Jinn just can't throw Obi away! What'll happen to Obi now – he won't be kicked out of the Order, will he? What's going to happen to Obi?" _

"_Don't know, don't care," Anakin shrugged. "He's Bantha-poodoo, anyway."_

"_Take that back - don't call Obi names!"_

"_Why not? He probably calls you 'pathetic' behind your backs like he did me and you don't even know it."_

_Heads immediately shook in negation. "Obi's nice, Obi-Wan wouldn't do that." A chorus of similar words poured out._

_Anakin's lips curled as he glared at his age mates. "He almost got Master Qui-Gon killed. He's cruel and he's incompetent – it would have been better for everyone if he'd died there so nobody else would get killed or almost killed."_

It had been a good thing the Initiate Master had shown up, alerted by the Force: well-behaved Jedi initiates might have been quite ill behaved otherwise.

* * *

Courtesy…a healer treats each patient with courtesy – but bantha-poodoo – such was not always easy. Bant took a calming breath before entering her next patient's room.

Apparently her cool nod of acknowledgment rather than friendly greeting upon her entrance had not been sufficient to deter conversation, for _he_ greeted _her_ cheerily enough.

"Good morning, Bant."

The healer glanced at her patient. Her lips tightened, but politely enough, she returned, "Good morning, Master Jinn."

She went back to studying the chart, but she could feel his eyes on her, a sense of curiosity in his gaze as if he didn't quite understand her coolness. Through her friendship with Obi-Wan, not to mention the friendship between Qui-Gon and her own master, both knew she usually wasn't prone to such formality in private. Formality now served as a welcome barricade; it allowed civility regardless of internal conflict.

"Are you personally offended by my wound?"

That startled her; Bant glanced at the Jedi master to see the trace of a smile on his face. He didn't know – he did not really know?

"I find all deliberately inflicted wounds offensive." The man dared nod in agreement. Bant let out a small sigh. "Such as to Obi-Wan."

All expression faded from his face. "My padawan – ."

"Obi-Wan?" Bant kept her expression bland. "He almost died for you; do you know how close he came – how sick he was? Then at his most vulnerable, you struck the final blow. I really don't know why he risked harming himself like that considering how you all but threw him aside -."

"It wasn't like that," he interrupted. "The Force –."

"The Force is not cruel, Master Jinn. However, you were," Bant interrupted in turn.

"Whatever your reasons, I will not dispute them, but I will dispute the means you used. Did Obi-Wan mean so little to you that you didn't even think to mention, oh, sometime before you proposed he was ready for the trials, to tell _him_ that so he wouldn't be blind-sided by you? Maybe you would have had a chance to cut his braid before you replaced him with that boy – you know, the one you barely even knew."

His eyes held hers, not angry, oh, Force, not angry, but pleading – wanting her to see he had done the right thing, the only thing. She knew different: he had had options, choices he had not made. There were always multiple paths one could pursue, but single-minded focus had blinded Qui-Gon to those possibilities. That had been why Master and Padawan had made such an effective team: their skills and focus complemented each other, making the team stronger than the whole.

"I had to make the Council see sense – the Force told me Anakin should be trained," he insisted.

So he was still blind to those alternative paths – need she point them out to him? Why was he so – dismissive of Obi-Wan or so – focused on the boy that he could not see beyond him?

"By you – right away – while you still had a padawan? Have you even been to see Obi-Wan? Even said, 'I'm sorry, but this boy is more important to the Force but you are important to me and I still care about you?' Have you?"

Silence greeted her words. Had Qui-Gon finally realized the magnitude, the consequences of his actions?

"No," Qui-Gon finally admitted in a low voice, no longer meeting her eyes. "No, I have not and I will not. Besides, Obi-Wan has made his own choices and wishes no further contact with me. What's done is done…there is no point in revisiting the past."

"That's just a convenient way of avoiding the consequences of the past, Master Jinn, if you ask me." His eyes flashed up to hers, a protest dead on his lips when their eyes locked. "Obi is damaged, do you understand that? Damaged and you brush it off as of no consequence or worse – his choice? Live in the moment is such a convenient excuse to walk away from the debris you leave behind, isn't it – only this time the debris is the boy you raised and the boy I once thought you cared for - Obi-Wan."

Bant slammed the datapad shut and left without a glance behind her.

Open-mouthed horror flashed in blue eyes behind her.

~~_Somewhere not too far and not too close_…

"Do the consequences of your behavior strike at your heart, pathetic Jedi?" hissed a man always on guard. Nothing – ever – was left to chance. Even now, with his tool Kenobi unexpectedly a danger, he had adapted to new circumstances, new knowledge. "Well it should, but the time to reproach yourself is not now. As yet you could make amends with that once precious padawan of yours – far too forgiving is he for it to be otherwise."

_Kenobi_…the figure tasted the word, seeking the mysteries so tantalizing and intriguing that swirled around him. The Force refused to divulge what he sought; a consequence, no doubt of the poor padawan's health. _Events_ had gotten a bit out of hand on Naboo. Such a shame, really; but he suspected no permanent harm was done.

He would work it into his plans; he always could. The figure leaned back, chuckling. He would allow Qui-Gon Jinn his moment of utter devastation, just one of many to come. He preferred the delicate jabs of pain and horror, the rising crescendo of fear and awareness. He could create it – and he could wipe it away, only to inflict it once more.

Yes, he would glean more information from Kenobi later. Once consciousness was regained.

There were still secrets to be divulged, prey to hunt, souls to bend to his will as he bent minds and bodies. Kenobi could wait. He could still play with Jinn.

In a mockery of caring, he twisted the screw of mounting self-loathing. "Tsk, tsk, Qui-Gon, has someone opened your eyes to what you did to that once 'gentle soul'? He's broken now, broken by you. Here I thought a Jedi's heart – yours – was large enough for more than just one, but no, your focus has always been so narrow that you are blind to the periphery."

The voice grew silky and soft, nearly caressing even as a crushing pressure squeezed the addressed Jedi's chest, the pain of knowledge and realization, the devastating reality he had self-inflicted on one he counted a dear friend, not just padawan.

_I shall wring more torment from your soul – and his, as well._

"Obi-Wan betrayed and hurt you. He deserves your scorn. But he is beneath you; an insect to be crushed and ignored. The Chosen One is your one concern now."

The pain in the Jedi master eased with this reminder from the Force; forgetfulness washed over him like a soothing wave as another face swam into his mind's sight: Anakin.

Qui-Gon's shame and horror dissipated, leached away. It had lasted but a second, then disappeared, gone as if it had never existed.


	21. The Stab of Knowledge

**To those who are reading, I thank you ...for those who will keep reading hoping that the never-ending angst ends, I double thank you. It will - but not for a long time. I do regret that, but this story is so much further ahead on another website, and I currently have no plans to do this story a favor and tighten it up. Force knows it could use it. **

**In response to a comment, chapter lengths vary and there is no "dastardly plot" to shorten each as we go. Some are long, some are short, and maybe, just maybe, some are "just right." **

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**Chapter 21. The Stab of Knowledge **

"What a tangled web we hope to unweave," Healer Jorak muttered to himself. What he did was art, not science; it proceeded at its own pace. Force echoes were not coordinates to be plotted, committed to graph or otherwise categorized, yet that was exactly what he was attempting.

Echoes tended to hold onto the essence of a person, tinged by his perception of said person's Force presence. Light and dark, luminescence and saturation, color and hue were as unique as each individual, yet not unchanging. Stress and grief, illness and injury left their marks.

The chair squeaked as the man leaned back. He needed access to young Kenobi, but hesitated. The padawan – knight – whatever his status was now needed rest, not a healer poking around his still healing mind. He showed all the confusion al'Kim had predicted and it manifested itself in silence.

As much as the Council wanted answers, they did not want to risk a setback in either Jedi's healing.

Too bad no one had thought of the risk of injury to young Skywalker or to the healer who examined him. Jorak winced at the memory and rubbed his ankle.

Skywalker had objected – loudly, vocally and physically – when Jorak had sought a follow up examination of his Force presence as he did periodically with Qui-Gon and would with Kenobi. If the kid was anything in hand-to-hand combat as he was in foot-to-shin kicking, he'd be the equal of Cin Drallig – or a terror worse than Master Yoda when he was most displeased.

Something niggled at his mind, something that told him he "saw" something he should not. What that was and within who eluded him. Probably something innocuous, but any anomalies needed to be investigated.

He would find it. He always did. He just didn't know when.

* * *

"Ah, Padawan, ready to escort your master to our quarters?" Qui-Gon ruffled the boy's hair as he pulled soft boots on. He was leaving – no more healers' gowns, beeping of machinery, or any of the myriad things that healers' did to make their patients' lives uncomfortable.

For such a grievous wound as he had suffered, his recovery had been remarkably fast. His blood loss had been minimal, veins cauterized by the lightsaber that had pierced his body; internal organs only nicked.

So much Force energy – perhaps even some of Obi-Wan's life energies – had been poured into the wound according to the healers that infection had never developed and the healing, once the shock had been treated and the wound stitched and treated by bacta, responded well to the rest.

The scars he wore like a badge of honor: he had stood against a Sith and survived. It was an accomplishment no Jedi had accomplished in centuries – no Jedi other than he and his former padawan.

And the Force whispered in unease whenever he visited that thought.

One should always pay heed to the whispers of the Force, and so the Force's unease became Qui-Gon's, little by little. Its prickles of warning coalesced into swirls of suspicion.

That Obi-Wan was successful when Qui-Gon was not was something he felt increasingly certain that the Council should cast a suspicious eye on and investigate far more thoroughly, whatever the current state of Obi-Wan's health. Those whispers told him they accepted far too easily his former padawan's brush with the dark and his seeming repudiation of it during his fight with the Zabrak – and had done so on Obi-Wan's word alone.

It seemed only he, other than the Force, suspected his former padawan had still been under the influence of the dark side when he had killed the Sith.

Obi-Wan was not strong enough or skilled enough in actual combat to do what his more accomplished master had not, even allowing for the vagaries of fate and chance. Even Anakin, for all his midichlorians, would not have been capable of such a feat at his age, and Qui-Gon was quite sure that Anakin was at least Obi-Wan's equal in Force strength already.

The "Chosen One," his legacy and his padawan, would prove the salvation of a galaxy falling apart.

Certainly not Obi-Wan Kenobi.

* * *

Soft tap, soft tap. Brisk slap, brisk slap. Sharp rap, sharp rap.

Obi-Wan often knew who was in the hallway by the sound of the footsteps. Decisive or indecisive, loud or soft, even hurried or leisurely, each passerby had a distinctive sound. One sense continued to inform him, even if the information meant little.

The footsteps did not pass by, this time, growing louder then receding. They paused just outside his door, as if indecisive.

Surely the healers did not fear his reaction? They thought him incapable of action or reaction to their words or their tests, for nothing was what he gave them – that was all he was capable of giving. It was comfortable that way, but he could not remain entirely unaware of events around him, no matter how much he craved it.

So it was that he knew, deep down, in some part of himself…some things did not have to be said. Some things would never be said, he knew that now as well.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was coming, fingering the edges of his blankets with unsteady hands. He really wasn't ready to confirm what he already knew, but truth postponed was only truth postponed. Truth had to be faced, so better now than another time, for the truth would be no different then versus now.

The healer finally entered his room and took a seat by his side, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

"Feeling any better today, Kenobi? Still nauseous?"

An honest question, but it was small talk to fill the silence. Obi-Wan clutched even tighter; then consciously relaxed his fingers.

"He's gone, isn't he?" The hoarse words startled them both. Had it been that long since he'd formed words? Obi-Wan finally opened his eyes and looked first at the healer than away, out the window, the words slow to form. "He's been released to quarters, hasn't he?"

The healer didn't have to ask who. "Yes."

"I thought…I hoped…." He blinked a tear away and his fingers picked once more at his blanket. He pressed his lips together, refusing to say it. That way he would not get an answer. He already knew; he just didn't want to hear it.

He was remembering – too much.

"Just rest, Padawan," the healer murmured, patting his arm and leaving in search of another, a friend and a healer, for that was what his patient was most in need of.

* * *

"You hoped Qui-Gon would come to see you first?" Bant's words were soft as she entered and sat by her friend. He had said so little since first wakening; it seemed he had trouble forming words to express his thoughts. That was her hope anyway. The alternative was that his mind was so damaged that he might not even truly comprehend what he had been told.

She lifted his hand in hers and rubbed it as Obi-Wan nodded, his face still turned away from her.

"Obi, look at me, I won't judge you, you know I would never judge you." She put a hand under his chin and turned his head to face her. Obi-Wan had not looked happy when she had last seen him before he left on his last mission, but he had been calm and composed. He had looked well.

Now he didn't.

His face was lined with pain; his eyes shadowed with loss. He ate little since his return, just as he said little. He had lost weight and he seemed to have lost hope. It wasn't depression, but a consequence and a reaction of the damage he had suffered.

She longed to again see the bright sparkle that lighted his eyes from within or to hear the gentle cadence of his voice, but as both a healer and a Jedi, she accepted that until he could discover something within himself to give, he could give no more. Far too much had been taken from him.

For Bant it was enough that Obi-Wan was alive and at least minimally communicative.

She felt a surge of hope when Obi-Wan returned the squeeze of her fingers with a squeeze of his own. He was trying to reach past what had happened to him, to reassure her.

"I knew he wouldn't – though I hoped," he admitted finally.

"Oh, Obi." She hugged him as he suddenly buried his face in her shoulder and held on tightly, not crying, just holding on as if holding on would restore him. Both knew it would not. He could not hold onto something that was already gone.

"Oh, Obi." It was her tears that fell instead.

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Yoda's old heart had been greatly gladdened to hear that Obi-Wan was slowly emerging from the quiet bars of his mental imprisonment, to reconnect with those around him.

As hard as it had been to watch the young man lie so passively, Yoda knew it would be far harder to watch the first stages of recovery, when the battle to reestablish himself battered against reality. There would be good days and bad - the good days, when Obi-Wan accepted his life as it now was and might forever be and his friends and colleagues rejoiced in his recovery; the bad days, when Obi-Wan might withdraw into sullen silence and denial and days it would be difficult to remain in his presence.

Such was the cycle of recovery. Yoda had seen it often and knew what to expect. He would be there to help Obi-Wan through it; he knew Mace would, as well. Once, Qui-Gon would have been there for his padawan through thick and thin, good and bad, joy and sorrow. Such was now not to be, never again to be.

Shaking his head at the inexplicable mystery of Qui-Gon's total desertion of his padawan for another, Yoda stood in the doorway, leaning on his gimer stick.

"Obi-Wan?"

The young man just lay, staring out the window, either not hearing or ignoring the soft call, Yoda didn't know which, huddled in the bed, broken and unable yet to reassemble himself. He tried again. "Obi-Wan."

Finally, the young Jedi turned his head to meet the concerned eyes. Misery in every line of his body, he asked haltingly, "Is that who I am?"

"Forget who you are, young one?"

There was silence, then a whispered, "No. I was Obi-Wan Kenobi. I was a Jedi, but now – I don't know who I am. Without the Force, I don't know if I – exist. I think Obi-Wan Kenobi…is dead. Who I am…?" He threw an arm over his eyes, refusing to meet the elder Jedi's eyes, trying to hide the pain so apparent.

_Please, just go away, go away…._ His unspoken plea was easy to read. A clawed hand gently touched the shaking shoulder, patted it.

"Exist still you do. The padawan who earned his knighthood, Council agrees."

Obi-Wan merely rolled over and buried his face in his arms. "I'm not a Jedi anymore, Master Yoda. No. I don't deserve it. Please, I can't talk about it…please just – leave me."

It didn't take the agitated Force around the young man to tell Yoda how upset Obi-Wan was.

Under other circumstances, he might have admonished him to seek control and Obi-Wan would have obeyed without question, but this was not the Obi-Wan of old. This Obi-Wan had been stripped of the Force, his mind scraped raw as if every nerve end were alive with pain, wounded and exhausted: even if those wounds had been incurred some time past and were slowly healing, they were far from healed as yet.

This Obi-Wan _was_ somebody else, for now.

Stifling a sigh, Yoda nodded to himself. He would give Obi-Wan room to grieve amidst his pain. He had only truly been aware of where he was for a few days; only now with Mace's mind blocks all but removed was he coming to grips with the recent past that he still did not remember with any clarity. Any added emotional stress might only bring on another seizure; perhaps damage more of his brain for damage there was.

"The part of his brain that deals with emotions is – not yet healed," was the delicate way the healers put it. "Not yet" did not automatically mean "would heal." At least it did not mean "would never heal."

If the Force willed it, Obi-Wan would recover. The Force always found a way, just as it had found a way through the young Jedi to heal the master – or a sudden, disquieting thought struck Yoda – what if _Obi-Wan_ had found a way to gather the Force to that end? Just whose will had it been?

Regardless, Qui-Gon had survived and was already released to finish recuperating in his own quarters. The padawan who had tried to save him was still in dire straits.

"My Obi-Wan you always will be, young one. Come back later I will," he said with a final pat on the trembling shoulder and hobbled thoughtfully from the room.

* * *

In a now-quiet room, Obi-Wan lay, listening to the receding footsteps, despair washing over him. Yoda had told him, more than once, what he had done and why he was in the healers' care, filling in the blanks in his memory. What he said had to be the truth, for Yoda never spoke anything but the truth, but it was a truth that scored deep each rehearing.

His master, his teacher, and his friend had put him aside without a second thought. A decade of togetherness, of joy and sorrow, of success and failures, of laughter and tears was for naught.

He would never be knighted at his master's hand or stand beside him. Qui-Gon had turned away from him.

Ten years…ten years gone. Had it all been a dream? Now, it was only a nightmare he couldn't escape.

Force, how he wished – how he wished not to be alone with the painful memories once more.

Yoda comforted him as best he could, when he could. He had leant his ear and offered gentle compassion, but once more Yoda had left him alone with his tears when deep within his heart he truly wanted nothing more than someone at his side. Once, Qui-Gon and Qui-Gon alone would have understood his unspoken need and stayed at his side no matter his pleas.

He had always found comfort in his master's caretaking of him when ill or injured, or in the Force. Now he had discovered that both were withdrawn from him.

What truly had he left?


	22. Ghosts of the Past

**Chapter 22. Ghosts of the Past**

Tears prickled at Obi-Wan's eyes, but he refused to give in to them. He might be a Jedi in name only, but he knew no other way to behave than one.

He would not be weak and he would not give in to his emotions. Despite his determination the tears he tried so hard to restrain slipped unabated down his cheeks; he covered his face with his arm as if such were sufficient to restrain them but still they wet his skin.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, as gentle as the tone in which "Obi" was spoken. Bant.

"No, please," he murmured, not caring how pathetic he sounded, but knowing any sympathy might well undo him.

Ignoring his words but not the silent plea of his heart, Bant just sat quietly at his side, rubbing his back, her silence and her touch giving him the permission he needed to let his emotions rage free. He shifted onto his side and buried his face in his pillow, shoulders shaking under the onslaught of no longer restrained tears.

"Don't be ashamed, Obi, it's okay to cry; this is a perfectly normal reaction after what you've gone through."

"W-weak."

Warm arms wrapped around him and with practiced ease, Bant shifted Obi-Wan so that he lay with his head against her shoulder. He wanted to protest, but her embrace was far too comforting to make the effort. Besides, when Bant was determined, nothing but the Force could deter her.

"Not weak of character, Obi." Her webbed fingers stroked through his hair, helping to calm his hitching breaths. "Weak from illness, believe me. Want me to show you the medical literature?" Despite the humor in her words, he thought he felt a tear or two drop to join his own. The thought of his pillow – soaked through with the tears of two Jedi – actually helped him to regain a modicum of control.

"Sick?" He lay quiescent in her embrace for a while, turning that thought around and over. Were these memories no more and no less than fever dreams – Naboo, Anakin – all that?

"Not – real. Good." Even he could hear the hope in his voice, just as he could see Bant's slow shake of her head. Hope evaporated like morning mist in the sun.

"Obi, you've been really ill in a way. Dreadfully ill. There's not a soul in this Temple who wouldn't have had some kind of reaction sooner or later – you've been battered in just about as many ways as any one being can be and it's going to be some time before you're well. So, admit it, you feel just a bit better for crying, now don't you?"

If he felt anything, it was drained. Exhausted and empty. But Bant, dear, sweet, caring Bant… for her he would dredge up a small gift from his heart.

"A bit - damper, perhaps," he murmured and fell asleep within the warm circle of her arms.

* * *

Outside the room, Mace stood listening quietly. He had not meant to eavesdrop on Bant and Obi-Wan, but he had sensed that it was better not to interrupt. Before he could retreat, the Force planted his feet in place.

Annoyed, Mace nonetheless stayed put.

What did the Force wish him to see? Or hear? Or – feel?

He squirmed a little at the last thought. He didn't need to feel, no more than normal compassion. He liked to think he wasn't a cold man, regardless of how he let others perceive him.

His eyes were drawn to the boy – man – cradled in the healer's arms. Obi-Wan had found a certain peace there, it seemed. When the Force could not comfort, it found another way. The Force always found a way.

Yes….perhaps that was the lesson it meant to show him. But to what purpose?

For some reason, Yoda's words on Naboo rose within his mind. _Obi-Wan, he is strong…the Jedi of whom I spoke – lived long he did not. Too much damage to his mind there was – found a way to die, he did. Wanted peace and sanity, found it he did by returning home to the Force. _

Mace shuddered. Obi-Wan had been devastated, true, but he had seemed on the way to recovery – _or was it numbed shock?_ – until his nearly fatal fall had set him back.

_Help him you will_.

_Of course_, he answered the question irritably; then paused. "_You_" – he. "_Will_" – that sounded like a command, not a suggestion. Mace Windu was chosen to assist the Force.

He squared his shoulders, now understanding.

Mace would help, and not just because the Force wished it, but because – he also wished it.

* * *

It was several days after Obi-Wan's teary breakdown in Bant's arms when the two Council members sat down once more with al'Kim Hitori. They had taken it upon themselves to be the liaison between the Council and the healers.

Others of the Council were discreetly checking into anything that might give a clue as to Qui-Gon's uncharacteristic behavior and Yaddle had been in daily contact with the Crèche Master and now the teaching masters who had contact with young Anakin Skywalker.

"Much better our young one seems," Yoda observed.

Mace grunted in assent. If Obi-Wan was on his feet and moving about, eating, interacting with others per the reports, surely he was well on his way to recovery. Neither he nor Yoda had seen much of Obi-Wan, true, as the healers had always been running all manner of tests whenever they had thought to visit.

The healer leaned back in his seat. A slight frown creased his brow as if he were deciding how best to respond.

"He's…doing well," al'Kim allowed. "He's awake and aware, responsive when spoken to, but otherwise he's largely silent. He barely touches his meals, but he does eat. But he's got a ways to go yet before we can pronounce him 'well.' He's still dealing with the residual damage to his brain, the awareness that right now he is not capable of touching the Force. He's angry and frustrated and trying hard not to be. He's trying desperately hard to be what he trained to be – and he can't. He is simply incapable of being that man – that Jedi – at this time."

Despite the seriousness of the man's words, Mace threw a glance at Yoda. "Try" was his sore spot, but Yoda let it slip. As he should.

A little thump of his gimer stick against the floor was the ancient Jedi's only response. So he had caught Mace's look and interpreted it correctly.

"He's trying to cope with too much all at once, on too many levels. Psychologically, young Kenobi is at war with himself – his knowledge of who and what he was and what he feels himself to be now. That stress alone is causing further stress which he can't release into the Force. If it were not for Master Windu…."

"He would be mentally unstable and seeking – sanity?" Mace glanced at Yoda, his lips tightening as Yoda's earlier words once again played through his mind.

"Probably. I believe that particular fate has been avoided." The healer gave a little smile. "At least psychological upheaval can be treated. Insanity is rather more problematical. I would be surprised if the poor boy was _not_ confused as to who he is."

Yoda blinked. "Obi-Wan Kenobi is who he is. That is all he needs to be."

Only a healer would dare turn a pitying eye on Yoda – and did. "You oversimplify a complex issue, with all due respect, Master Yoda. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Jedi who relied on six senses. He was quick-witted and resourceful, rather quiet in manner and utterly devoted to his master and the Force. He has lost all that and more.

"He isn't able to think like a Jedi or even like Obi-Wan Kenobi at this time, so of course he doesn't feel like either one either. His emotions now control him when he's used to controlling them. For an already damaged mind, all of this is overwhelming. He is not the Obi-Wan Kenobi you knew; what's worse, he knows it, too. He's withdrawn into himself for sheer protection – denying the truth protects his fragile sense of self."

"Not so much denying as hiding," Mace said with a rare burst of understanding. "He's been taught not to display vulnerability by this Order, so he hides because he has no outlet to release it."

The healer nodded, tapping a stylus against his datapad. After a moment's thought, al'Kim added, "Yes, very true, he is unable to release his fears into the Force."

"Then a new approach we must teach him," Yoda finally pronounced in his gravelly voice.

"You have to reach him first, perhaps after he recovers a bit more. Kenobi's retention of information is, well…his memory is uncertain. We find ourselves repeating things we have already told him but I suspect this is just a short term, ah, 'issue.' As he fights through the mental fog still afflicting him, I suspect he will be more amenable. He's rather weak yet, though I'm willing to release him to another's custody soon once we assure ourselves he's ready to leave our custody. He can rest anywhere, and rest is what he now needs."

"We will continue to be there for him in whatever manner seems best," Mace assured the healer. "We do not expect Obi-Wan to deal with this on his own; in fact, I'll take personal responsibility for him."

"I'm glad to hear someone will look after him. In a few days or so, you should be able to take him to your quarters, if that is what you planned?" With a soft cough, al'Kim added a warning, "However, Master Windu, I must again warn you he is quite fragile."

Mace nodded, not at all perturbed. "I am quite aware of that."

"Good for our youngling he will be," Yoda pronounced, the soft twinkle in his eyes allaying the healer's concerns, if any. "Consideration and compassion Mace Windu is more than capable of showing when he deems it appropriate."

"Just keep that knowledge to yourself!" Mace admonished with a growl. "I do have a reputation to maintain."

Doing his best to restrain a twitch of amusement, al'Kim nodded gravely. Mace just knew that inside the healer was chortling with glee, oh, he could well imagine his thoughts: Mace Windu, Council disciplinarian – and old softie?

One thought rang loud and clear through the Force, however: Maybe Mace Windu was just what Obi-Wan Kenobi needed right now – no nonsense caring.

Mace hoped so, too.

* * *

"There," Qui-Gon said with satisfaction. All of Obi-Wan's things were now boxed and ready to be moved out so that Anakin could move in. He stood with a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Qui-Gon, sir," small eyes peered up at the big Jedi with a bashful grin. "I've never had a whole room of my own like this or – or anyone besides Mom who thinks I'm special."

A sudden sniff and Qui-Gon kneeled, wrapping the boy in a hug. "You are special, Ani, very special. Don't worry; everyone will see, in time, just how special you are."

"Even _him_?"

"Obi-Wan?" A genuine frown of puzzlement creased the noble face. "Why do you even care what he thinks? I don't care and you shouldn't either." With a bit of difficulty, Qui-Gon tried to release the anger and frustration that washed over him at Anakin's obvious distress. Why did the shadow of Obi-Wan loom so large over this boy?

"I don't care what _he_ thinks – but you do," Anakin burst out. Tears came to his eyes. "I'll never be like him, no more than a prophecy, no matter how hard -"

Qui-Gon blanched at the thought that this small boy believed he was not wanted for himself, but for something he represented. Long ago had he not allowed Obi-Wan to feel accepted not for himself, but out of gratefulness for the boy's actions – and look how that had ended up! To be rejected for _who_ one was and accepted for _what_ one was, was a terrible, terrible thing to do to another being.

"Oh, Ani, child, shush. I don't want you to be like him – you're far better than he." Even as the words left his mouth, Qui-Gon frowned. _Better?_ Since when had he classified any being on a scale, ranking them by some arbitrary criteria? Worth was a measure of degree, but all – all – were worthy to some degree. Even – even Obi-Wan.

_Is he?_ the Force reminded him.

"Yes, Ani, I cared for Obi-Wan, once, but my disappointment in him runs deep. It turns out I didn't know him half as well as I thought."

"So you don't want him back?" Anakin's lip quivered.

"Force, no!" Qui-Gon's eyes went wide at the thought – and the unwelcome recognition that some part of him wanted to weep for what had been lost. That was the part that blindly clung to a desperate faith that things were just _all wrong, _that whatever the whispers of the Force said, his heart knew they spoke not truth_._ "I want nothing to do with him after the way he's treated you."

_Or the way he treats the Force – his arrogance and defiance of its Will._

"We both discovered he hid a vengeful, nasty streak deep inside and," he blinked, a tendril of remembrance surfacing, of anger and fear and a padawan charging to the attack. "I fear he was not as anchored to the light as I thought – he succumbed to his darker emotions far too easily."

_His allegiance is in question, is it not?_

"I fear – I fear he's tainted."

There it was again, that fear that scrabbled deep inside. Just when had that fear awoken, what knowledge or suspicion?

_He slew the Sith – fueled by hate. _The Force knew that; it _told_ him that, told him that he must be sure the Council knew that.

_Love fueled his hate – and love had surmounted hate. _Some part of him clung to doubt of the Force's whispers, clung to a desperate wish that ten years together were not ten years of deceit.

"The dark?"

Such innocence – of course, Anakin would know nothing of the dark side. He was, however, only human. Not matter how good-natured, how generous the boy was, he could be hurt and he could be angered – he would need to know how dangerous such emotions could be for a Jedi, if not recognized and released.

Qui-Gon gently grasped the boy's forearms and gazed into his eyes. Here, he started here with the most important lesson he could impart. He would not lose another apprentice.

"A Jedi does not act on emotions, Anakin, only on the Force's will. When a Jedi lets anger and fear control his actions, he is slipping down a path one should not travel. Obi-Wan fought – and I suspect killed – the Sith out of revenge for my supposed death and fear for his own life."

Had dark side energies aided Obi-Wan's life-saving efforts as well? Could he himself have been inadvertently contaminated with tendrils of dark because of Obi-Wan's actions – could that be why he was sometimes so easily irritated?

He quickly quelled the panic. It would be easy enough to find out and deal with now that he was aware there was a possibility of such. Not now.

"Ani, from now on, you are not to worry about Obi-Wan. He's not part of your life or mine. You are my padawan – because I want you. You are a kind, selfless and generous soul and you'll make an equally kind, selfless and generous Jedi."

He was rewarded with a bright and shy smile. Anakin reacted so well to positive reinforcement – he would a joy to teach. All it would take was praise for a job well done and the boy would go out of his way to do even better.

"I'm going to learn lots from you, aren't I?"

Qui-Gon smiled at the enthusiasm in his young voice.

"I'm going to be the best Jedi ever and the most powerful ever – and all because of you, Master Qui-Gon."

Gratitude towards this boy engulfed him. Yes, Anakin would be strong and wise. He would be a most worthy servant of the Force and an inspiration to the entire Order – and he already thought to credit Qui-Gon for the success to come. Such devotion, so freely offered, nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"No, child – all I can do is to help you unlock your own strength. Greatness already lies within you; my task is only to guide you to its fullest expression. You are already truly powerful, my padawan – you just need to learn how to access the Force so that it flows through you without impediment."

"And then I'll save everyone, even," Anakin bit his lip, suddenly whispering. His eyes darted to Qui-Gon, to his hands and he spoke in a pained whisper, "even my, my mom."

Tears shone in his eyes; little hands scrubbed them away. Pain such as Qui-Gon had never yet encountered shimmered in waves off the boy. He was the "Chosen One" – and yet he was also a homesick young boy, taken away from a mother left in virtual chains.

Qui-Gon squeezed the boy's shoulder and smiled, a tear in his own eye. He knew the Force would protect Shmi Skywalker; it told him to leave her in its hands. "I should have done this before now, but I wanted to make this special." _I want to make you feel at home, here_. "Follow me."

With Anakin trotting behind, Qui-Gon went to the doorway but rather than leading his padawan somewhere, he stopped outside the door and with a flourish produced a shiny nameplate. _Q. Jinn_ with _A. Skywalker_ below it.

"Why don't you do the honors?" He held out the nameplate.

With a quick flash of his hand, Anakin yanked off the once equally as shining nameplate. Qui-Gon tossed it with a flick of the Force into the nearest trash receptacle as Anakin affixed the replacement.

"Wonderful." Qui-Gon stood with his hands on the boy's shoulders as both stared proudly at it.

"_Welcome, my padawan." Master Dooku nodded formally and led the way into his quarters – no, their – quarters. Qui-Gon was proud. He was a padawan now. Master Dooku might be all formality, but he was a good Jedi. He might never become a true friend, but he would be a good master._

"_Welcome, my padawan." Such a smile there had been on his padawan's face. Qui-Gon had vowed to be a friend as well as a master to this one. That had, perhaps, been a mistake. He hadn't known it then._

"_Welcome, my padawan." The words were a bit stilted; after all, they'd already been master and padawan for several months. It seemed awkward to have this little ceremony at this time. It would be more awkward to skip it entirely. Obi-Wan hadn't seemed to mind. He had run his fingers over the nameplate and his shining face had said it all: he belonged, he was home. Qui-Gon wondered then why it had taken him so long – had he really held the boy aloof, testing him, uncertain of him or was it the lack of time from all the missions they'd been on?_

"Welcome, my padawan." After the ceremonial utterance, he urged Anakin inside, but the boy refused to budge. He ran a proud hand over the nameplate.

It was a proud moment, for them both. He sensed that his padawan's heart was overflowing with happiness, just as his was, confirmed just a moment later.

"Wizard!" Anakin beamed up at the tall Jedi.

Blue eyes – sapphire eyes - stared at him.

Once, they had been blue-gray. Qui-Gon blinked. Why had that image popped into his mind? He banished the eyes from memory, just as he had already banished the owner of those eyes from his heart.

That one no longer existed to him.


	23. What is Past Cannot be Undone

**Happy Holidays to everyone - here's my present to you, though I'm sure many of you will truly hate Qui-Gon after this chapter. He believes, even if you don't, that he is acting in the best interest of the Jedi. **

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* * *

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**Chapter 23. Accusations and Confessions**

Obi-Wan turned his attention from the open doorway where the on-duty padawan who had helped him dress had disappeared. He sat on the bed, waiting. He was leaving the healers; Master Windu was coming to take him home. Vaguely he wondered where he was heading – where was home now?

No matter how many explanations he had been given, he had trouble retaining the information. He had been hurt. The evidence of that was in his weak left side, the occasional tremble in his hand, and the muddle that was often his mind, though less than it had been.

He had some trouble putting his thoughts into any kind of coherent order; even more difficulty in expressing them. It kept him largely silent. Perhaps silence was normal for him; he no longer remembered. He only remembered enough to weep for what was lost.

Normally lithe, he now moved slowly, when he did, favoring his left side. He stood, balancing himself with one hand on the side of the bed, gathering his balance before stepping to a seat by the window.

This careful concentration on what he did and how he struggled to express himself surely wasn't normal. No, it couldn't be, not for a Jedi. He knew he must have been athletic at one time even if now he found himself lacking in grace. All Jedi were athletic and fit so he must have been before his injury as well.

He had a braid, so he also knew he must have a master, even if that master was absent – that spot remained vacant despite all those who otherwise sat at his side.

Because Master Yoda or Master Windu were so often present - quietly reassuring, clearly concerned about his well-being - he had sometimes wondered if perhaps one or the other was his master. He didn't really think so, but he knew he was confused and uncertain of much.

So he had asked once.

"No, young one, your master I am not though pleased I would be were it so."

The words confirmed what he had suspected.

Master or not, he did have Master Windu and Master Yoda, the healers, his friend Bant to keep him company. He was a grown man; he didn't need constant attendance by his master, but a visit or two – that would have been nice.

He wrinkled his forehead. Hadn't he been told his master – was no longer his? Yes…he remembered; he had done something – wrong. That was his master didn't come - ?

He twisted his fingers in his lap and again stared out the window, unmindful of the tear that ran down his cheek. He was too used to them, by now. They came without biding; they came when he remembered and they came when he forgot.

He didn't think Jedi cried, but a tear or two harmed no one. No one told him to stop, so it must be okay.

"Ready, Obi-Wan?" A hand dropped on his shoulder and he twisted around. The hand tightened, that reassuring touch he had come to count on.

Mace squeezed his shoulder, Yoda patted his hand or brushed a tear from his eye, and Bant hugged him. He knew their touches quite well by now, and appreciated them. The hole created by loss filled partly up when someone touched him.

He nodded and stood. Mace took his arm to steady him when he faltered. The distance was not far, but seemed endless. Once there, he sank into a chair and closed his eyes.

_Home?_

Mace certainly tried to make him feel at home. A cup of fragrant tea was placed by his side. He opened his eyes and drank, grateful for the warmth spreading through him.

"Th-thank you." He stumbled over the words. He remembered words tumbling out of his mouth at other times. He had never lacked for words, not when he wished to speak.

Why did he remember that?

And how much of what he remembered was true – and how much was not?

* * *

Mace studied Obi-Wan from a far doorway. The young man had made a lot of progress in a few days.

Originally largely silent and huddled within sorrow, with eyes focused on something unseen, the young man had fought through bouts of frustration and sorrowful gloom, fighting the disconnect between his mental processes and his inability to verbally express himself.

Only his eyes were not muted, quick and attentive except when focused inwards.

For some reason even he couldn't explain, Obi-Wan had tended to stand or sit at the window for long periods of time with a puzzled quirk to his eyebrows, as if something he could not quite put a name to called him. Perhaps answers to his unasked questions were there – somewhere.

Mace hesitated to ask. He was sure by now Obi-Wan himself did not know what he looked for unless he knew and was afraid it was forever lost.

All he or anyone could do was wait out those instances and accept the tears that so often accompanied them. A consequence, the healers emphasized, of the damage.

Flashes of the old Obi-Wan were now surfacing, more and more often, much to Mace's relief. It gave him hope that recovery was ever nearer. The healers had given Obi-Wan exercises, mental and physical, and he had devoted himself to them. His speech was more even and less laborious, more fluent, and he was regaining strength. If not yet the man he had been, he was no longer the man shaken by seizures and deep pain that had replaced him.

Even the shattered bond was mending; the wound once so raw was still painful but no longer incapacitating. Healer Jorak was already planning a follow up exploration of his preliminary findings. Mace understood this was not related to any Force echoes, per se, but a curiosity regarding the bond damage and any possible correlation to the mental and physical effects incurred initially and how such damage was slowly repairing.

It seemed more than one healer had taken quite an interest in Kenobi's "case," judging by the advice and suggestions offered to him as Obi-Wan's temporary guardian.

"_Don't expect the gain in his physical health to correspond to a gain in his emotional health,"_ the healers warned, more than once. "_As the mental confusion lessens, he will remember more clearly everything that has happened and all but relive it again as if it had just happened_. _It will be a step forward, step backward process to healing. Don't let it worry you, Master Windu. We will continue to monitor him until we feel he is handling things to our satisfaction."_

The healers had been correct.

Mace figured the best thing he could do was nothing except provide a non-judgmental presence. Not until the tears stopped, or the questions started, would he interfere with the process of coming to terms with recent events – usually with a cup of something hot or a squeeze of a shoulder.

This was Obi-Wan's fight. His alone, but he stood not alone. Others stood with him and by him.

Just not the one who should.

**

* * *

Qui-Gon had not been so happy in a long time.**

Why not? He had Anakin to buoy his spirits. The boy was a delight, curious and quick-witted, full of questions and eager to learn. In that he was little different than the past two apprentices – but he was different than them both, better than both. In this one resided no guile, no malice, and no deceit.

He was an affectionate and loving child and an already gifted and soon to be exemplary Jedi. He was Qui-Gon's legacy.

He had few reasons to be other than happy. He was alive and his wound was mending well. For both he was grateful. Only one thing marred his happiness.

One was Anakin's reception by the rest of the Order. The welcome they gave him was – insufficient in warmth, mere polite murmurs of greeting. Anakin was just a young, homesick boy and not this – this usurper as they seemed to think. Anakin was at Qui-Gon's side because the Force had placed him there.

Obi-Wan was no longer there because the Force had deemed his place belonged to another.

Was it because the Force had known as well that the apprentice once so prone to impulse and anger had only learned to mask those feelings? Once Qui-Gon would have said no, said Obi-Wan was nothing but light – but he had not known true light until Tatooine, there where light had beckoned him…and where the seeds of jealousy and envy, lying long unfertile had taken root and consumed the once-promising apprentice.

No, it was not desire to mete out additional punishment that prompted his decision to speak out, so Qui-Gon decided after several days of indecision and meditation. It was concern – for his padawan and for the Order.

Light could be tarnished, but light could _not_ be tainted and remain without consequence.

Anakin was a supernova in the Force – so blinding his light that it overwhelmed Qui-Gon's senses at time. It threw all around it into shadow, making it hard to discern true darkness from mere illusion of such.

In Obi-Wan did he feel true darkness – or just the absence of light? The Force itself urged him to abandon silence – too much was at stake to indulge in the merest semblance of sentimentality.

Would the Council show an open mind? They were aligned against Anakin already and thus all too apt to oppose his master in this matter. They listened not to the Force else they would already be questioning and investigating.

Instead, they were all too quiet on the subject.

Taking advantage of Anakin's presence in class, Qui-Gon requested an audience with the Council and one was promptly granted. It was his duty and his responsibility – to Anakin, to the Order and to the Force, to do what was distasteful but necessary.

He was surprised by the alacrity in their acceptance; perhaps they had had reservations as well but wished to allow him time for a full recovery. Certainly no one had spoken to him since Yaddle, on the trip home. They had not badgered him in any way, shape or manner. Maybe he hadn't been left in isolation, but left to make a full recovery.

After acknowledging the Council's greeting and best wishes for his continued recovery and declining a seat in consideration of his injuries, he bluntly stated his purpose.

"I have come before the Council to express my concerns about Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Initially, he had sensed expectancy in their gazes, now he sensed wariness and concern, no matter how disguised.

The Council members exchanged inscrutable looks before all turned their eyes back on him. Qui-Gon held firm. He had faced the Council before and he would no doubt face them again. He was not easily intimidated.

After a few moments of silence, Mace finally spoke.

"Your former padawan is no longer your concern. You have made that very clear and we have removed him from your jurisdiction as well. What reason have you to ask about him?" Mace was very formal, more so than usual. In fact, his old friend was rather aloof these days, seemingly more concerned about Qui-Gon's padawan – former padawan, he reminded himself – than Qui-Gon himself.

"Has he been examined for dark side taints?"

His eyes searched the Council's impassive faces. He had expected an expression of surprise, perhaps a knowing nod or two, but not this – nothing.

"On what basis do you ask this?"

"He drew on his anger to fight the Zabrak."

"He did," Mace acknowledged, sounding not at all surprised. "Perhaps a bit of hate as well."

So it _was_ true. Qui-Gon let out a slow breath. "Anger and hate is of the dark side."

"We are aware of that." Adi Gallia spoke up. Qui-Gon's eyes shifted to her. Like the others, he could not read her.

"It is my belief he killed under the influence of those emotions – and tried to heal me by drawing upon those same dark energies – how else to explain his success at something even the healers are at a loss to explain?"

"Will of the Force?" That was Ki-Adi-Mundi, raising one bushy eyebrow at the Jedi master.

Qui-Gon swallowed. That was a low blow – to use his own oft-used defense as an offensive weapon.

"I demand you examine him and determine if Obi-Wan Kenobi should be stripped of the Force and exiled or determine if he can be rehabilitated."

The room remained silent. Qui-Gon raised his chin defiantly and met all the eyes without flinching. They did not flinch, either, but appraised him as if seeking to determine his motivation. He felt vaguely insulted; they should know he would not make unsubstantiated claims.

Only Yoda's face showed something other than impassivity; it showed disappointment. That Yoda would so deliberately reveal his thoughts was a bit disconcerting and annoying.

"He has no access to the Force," Mace said evenly. "Did you not know this? You would, had you cared to ask. He was, after all, your padawan at the time of his injury."

Qui-Gon's eyes flickered and he took a deep, centering breath. He had _not_ known this. "The Force itself has punished him? He is no threat, then?"

"Threat?" Yoda banged his stick on the floor. "That boy is no threat to anyone – has lain injured and in deep psychic pain and even now is only partly himself. The path to his full recovery is not clear. Function as a Jedi again he might never, not as he once could."

Yoda's meaning burst over the Jedi master like a sudden dash of cold water in his face. Was Obi-Wan so damaged – no, his concerns were justified. Quickly recovering from his surprise, he straightened to his full height and faced the Council, every inch of him the Jedi master speaking on behalf of the Force.

"If he recovers, might he be a threat? Masters, for the sake of the Order, for the sake of the 'Chosen One' I respectfully suggest that you take steps to assure that he is not tainted by –"

"Tainted!" Yoda stood and hobbled over to Qui-Gon. His gimer stick poked at Qui-Gon; nearly whacked his shin when he was slow to respond. "Kneel you will."

He waited, scowling at Qui-Gon until the Jedi master complied.

"Suspect too much, know too little you do. Touched the dark Obi-Wan Kenobi did, yes, let it fuel him even – at first. Not the only Jedi to have done so, either. That I have; Mace Windu as well. Stronger we are for the repudiation. Repudiated it your padawan did as well – gave him the strength to save himself and you it did. Your life – a gift of the Force – and of Obi-Wan's affection for you. Believe me or not, I do not care. Ask the Force; believe then you will."

"Even if he is not tainted, his behavior towards Anakin needs addressing," Qui-Gon was undeterred by Yoda's vehemence or his frown.

"The past is past, is it not, Qui-Gon? Address any behavior of the present in the present we will, if and when it occurs. This should be satisfactory to you." Without further words, Yoda turned and hobbled back to his seat with a grunt.

Qui-Gon slowly rose to his feet and glanced at each Councilor in turn. There was no sympathy in any of the eyes that faced him, no condemnation, either. His only ally was the Force itself.

He nodded sharply and folded his arms within his sleeves.

"I have done my duty to the Order by bringing my concern before you. You are free to ignore the warnings of the Force. However, let me make this very clear: Obi-Wan Kenobi is to stay away from Anakin, now and forever. I do not wish him to speak to him, to interact with him, or influence him in any way, shape or manner. I will not answer for the consequences – Anakin is too important to the Order to risk."

"All Jedi face risk and all are valuable to the Force, Master Qui-Gon." Adi reminded him. "We suggest you follow your own advice – leave the fate of both your current and former padawan to the Force. By doing so, none of us can do wrong by either one."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi will answer to me, as well as the Force, Master Gallia, should he interfere with Anakin's mental or emotional well-being."

"Enough of this," Mace interrupted sharply, though his gaze almost skewered Qui-Gon. "Your warning has been heard by this Council, Master Jinn. You are free to go. May the Force be with you."

Qui-Gon's eyes widened in indignation.

His dismissal had been said almost with pity. _May the Force be with you_, as if Mace hoped it would again be. Well, two could play at that game.

"As I hope it will be with you as well." He stalked out, feeling the disapproving stares upon his back. He didn't care.

He had said what he had had to say, warned of what he must. For the Force, for Anakin. That was all that mattered.

* * *

"Dark side taints!" With a rare fury, Mace glared at Yoda, his words directed at the long departed Qui-Gon Jinn. The Jedi master's effrontery in Council had roused his ire, ire held in check until now - until it could be released. The other counselors were long gone. "Great Force, what Jedi worth the title Knight has _not_ touched the dark? What does he think the trials are if not a way to force a padawan to confront and reject the dark?"

The momentary temper passed without comment. After a few moments silence, Yoda calmly asked, "Better you feel now, hmm?"

Mace was already passing from _feeling_ to _releasing_ his emotions; he finally shrugged and sat down.

"Better; just as confused. I have to admit I'm tempted to suspect Qui-Gon of dark side taints for spouting this – this utterly ridiculous idiocy. Does he think the Council ignored Obi-Wan's brief dabble – we evaluated, investigated and scrutinized every aspect of that boy's state of mind and his actions before concluding his surrender to the light after that heady intoxication was a thorough renunciation of the dark? Surely he didn't mean to suggest that we neglected our Force-given responsibilities?"

Even before Yoda's shake of his head, Mace had decided, no, Qui-Gon would not have been so subtle. He'd have thrown that very accusation in their face if he had believed that. The man was utterly fearless. Stubborn, opinionated, tactless – yet he was as well a man capable of great warmth and compassion.

And utterly, totally wrong in his belief about Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He had believed no wrong, no ill of his first padawan until the moment of betrayal. He had believed in the presence of dark potentialities – enough anger and recklessness to drag a boy from light – to dismiss another as too much of a threat to be his second.

In each case, he had judged each to be the opposite of what was true. Actions had proven what appearances had hidden.

What, dear Force, had soured that hard-won knowledge; what had made the ill Qui-Gon should have seen in the first become the ill seen in the second?

Surely it was not because of another boy aglow with both the Force and with similar dark side tendencies, one with far more worrisome anger issues than a young Obi-Wan had ever displayed.

_Why, Qui, why?_ Even after years of friendship, Mace could come up with no explanation for the Jedi master's terse allegation. None of the Council could.

"Abandoned his own padawan he did with insufficient explanation or motivation; that the Force urged him to champion the boy as he claims, perhaps; perhaps not. This inadequacy he translates to the Council I suspect. Tread carefully we must and ascertain what lies hidden or muddled, for lives may be affected by whatever path we pursue."

Yoda traced a small circle on the floor, sighed, and abruptly changed the subject. "Better our young one is, I hear."

"Much better," Mace agreed, steepling his fingers and settling back in his seat. "He's made tremendous progress since being released into my care; I swear I thought I had a ghost haunting my quarters at first but now he's part way back to his old self."

From quietly compliant to occasionally smiling, the slow path to healing had begun for one young Jedi.

The path to understanding _why_ all that had happened did happen was no clearer. The consequences of that _why_ had already set the future onto a different course. Had the consequences of that _why _been known far sooner, that future, too, would have been diverted onto yet another path.

On _why_ hinged the galaxy.


	24. the real What is Past Cannot be Undone

**Chapter 24. What is Past Cannot Be Redone**

Obi-Wan was not so wrapped in melancholy that he failed to notice the banked fire in Mace's eyes when he returned from what seemed to be a fractious Council session. He quietly got up and made a pot of tea, staying out of the way so that Mace could let go of his quiet irritation; then just as quietly set a steaming cup before the Jedi.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan." Mace's words caught him before he could return to his calm contemplation. He smiled and resumed his own seat, cradling his own cup.

After a sip and a few moments of companionable silence, Mace spoke almost idly, yet Obi-Wan knew Mace spoke nothing idly.

"Did you know that I thought about taking you as my padawan once – you must have been, oh, eleven or so, but I hesitated to take on the responsibility of a padawan – any padawan - when the Council commanded so much of my focus? It wouldn't be fair, I told myself. I can't help but think we'd both be better off had I pursued that thought, but at the time it seemed the Force had a different destiny in mind for us both. I should have listened to my instincts, not my mind. I'm sorry I did not."

Startled by this hitherto unknown admission and assessment of past possibilities, Obi-Wan raised his eyes and shook his head after a moment of reflection.

"After a bit of a bumpy start and many missteps on my part - there were good years. I wouldn't trade those away and I don't wish to forget them, no matter – no matter how it ended. I just wish – those were the only memories I had…." His voice caught in his throat and he wiped away a tear with a shaking hand.

He was so tired of crying – weeping at little provocation, weeping at memories both good and bad, weeping but never to fruition.

No matter what Yoda had said there on Naboo, Jedi didn't cry. _He_ did – but then again, he wasn't much of a Jedi anymore.

Wasn't that why the Force was no longer with him?

He had abused it and profaned it; he had forced it to his own desires until it had wrenched free of his grasp. Just as his master had, it had rejected him.

No one had told him this, but the occasional overheard word, the not-meant-to-be-heard comments all but confirmed this theory. There was no other explanation – none that he could think of and none other that were offered to him.

He swallowed and focused on his tea.

Warm, liquid, honey colored – inanimate and incapable of feeling pain – he had been drinking a lot of tea, or caf, or even water lately, finding the liquid soothing just so long as he was careful not to finish off an entire cup. He had, once, not long after being brought to Mace's quarters.

He'd been alone and oh, so chilled, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the window, trying not to think, trying not to remember. He'd thought to try to warm himself with warm coca, not too sweet and redolent of warm comfort for as long as he could remember.

"_Feeling better, Padawan?" Strong yet gentle fingers had stroked fever-dampened hair from his brow as he drank. _

"_Feeling warm yet, Padawan?" Warm fingers pressed to his temples as he shivered._

Just as then, he'd drunk greedily, seeking warmth, eyes closed. What peace he had found fled the second he lowered the cup and happened to look within: drained, smudged with left over dregs - the cup was just as empty inside as he was.

He'd been shocked to stillness; fingers itching to shatter the cup and fling it aside…but something stilled his hands. A forlorn hope…or fear of the consequences – he could not even now say.

"_It's empty, Master Windu," he whispered, when he heard the Jedi enter the room. He looked up, eyes desolate. "It's empty."_

"_We'll just have to refill it, then." Mace fetched a refill and a blanket, and tucked one in Obi-Wan's hand and the other around his shoulders. "The emptier the vessel, the easier it is to refill."_

But he was still waiting – and the vessel was still empty, for what was poured into him – care, comfort, and concern – came from without and did not linger. He, or the Force, was the only thing that could fill him, not others.

"…you opened that stubborn goat's heart and he should be on his knees thanking the Force for gifting him with such a devoted padawan. Any master would have been proud to call you padawan, early missteps or not."

With a shrug that didn't quite hide his sadness, Obi-Wan stared at the cup in his hands, absently watching the swirling liquid. "Our pairing came from the Force and in time he accepted it as such and stopped questioning my presence in his life. We grew close and I thought we would remain close even after my knighting." He ran splayed fingers over his face, a bit surprised that his eyes remained dry this time.

"Now the Force has spoken to him, only this time he has learned to listen. It wants to pair him with Anakin. Who can fault Master Jinn for being such a good servant of the Force?"

"I can fault him for his methods," Mace said a bit tartly. "A Jedi should never be cruel."

"He did not intend to be." His words held quiet conviction, for Obi-Wan could never be persuaded otherwise. He took a deep breath. "Master Windu, don't let – this, me - come between you. I'm not worth it. He probably needs your friendship now more than ever, not to mention the Council's support should Anakin truly be the 'Chosen One' of prophecy."

And if Anakin _was_ the Chosen One – Obi-Wan _had_ to honor the Force's gift to the galaxy, despite the personal cost. Practicality not sentimentality governed the Jedi and Obi-Wan was a Jedi to the core – even now, when he had never felt less like a Jedi.

"Well, I'll be…." For a moment it seemed Master Windu was unable to find the words to chide a failed apprentice who had the temerity to lecture a Council member on proper behavior. Obi-Wan's face paled, but before he could even begin to choke out an apology, Mace shook his head, effectively silencing him. Finally, as if less displeased than he should by rights be, Mace offered a simple, "You continually amaze me, Obi-Wan."

Startled not to be reprimanded, he murmured softly, "I should not have spoken so –"

Mace raised a peremptory hand, cutting Obi-Wan off in mid-sentence.

"I am not displeased with you, quite the opposite. You have set aside your feelings to think beyond yourself – and incidentally reminded me that I must do so as well. While I believe Qui-Gon's behavior is inexcusable, you're right: one must remember that it is the deed not the person that must be condemned."

"Would any Jedi say otherwise?" Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably; the speaker of truth should not be praised for speaking it. Condemn the deed, not the doer: that was ingrained in him as part of his very upbringing in the Order; he couldn't imagine mouthing words he did not mean.

"Some might," Mace admitted candidly. "It's not always as easy as we make it sound to forgive others for what they say or do – such often takes time and meditation, even for an old Jedi like myself who should know better." He steepled his fingers as if reflecting upon his words, but did not elaborate.

"Or recognition that one might also do or have already done similar ill deeds." A flicker of regret crossed Obi-Wan's face and he leaned his head on one hand, eyes lost in the past. Far too many times he had hurt Qui-Gon or others and been forgiven. He could do no less in turn.

"Ill-considered or impetuous deeds, perhaps, yet never so ill a deed." Shrewd eyes appraised the young man before softening fractionally. "My possibly fractured friendship with Qui-Gon is of lesser concern than you. That is not open to discussion or debate so you might as well close your mouth and refrain from whatever you were about to say."

"You would have been a good master," Obi-Wan finally said, a faint flush adding a hint of life to pale skin.

"With a padawan such as you, such would not have been a difficult achievement for any Jedi, I suspect. Force knows I'm not much for handing out effusive praise –I'm known for my reprimands more than praises - but I thought I needed to speak the truth and you needed to hear it – just keep it between ourselves, if you will. Be that as it may, the past is behind us. What I can be and _am_, however, is your friend." Mace almost smiled, before getting up to refill both their mugs, dropping a friendly hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder as he stood.

Incredibly touched and grateful, Obi-Wan brushed away a hint of moisture dampening his lashes. He didn't deserve such kindness, but deserved or not, the continual kindness of so many was a miracle that Obi-Wan cherished with each gesture, each word, and each touch.

Such was not unexpected, from Bant or the healers, but that Mace Windu would take him into his personal care and call him "friend" was almost more than he comprehend.

As a witness to at least the latter part of the decades-long friendship between Qui-Gon and Mace, Obi-Wan was no stranger to the less formal side of the Jedi master, but he had never been fully at ease in his presence. No padawan wished to be the recipient of his fierce frown or earn the lash of his tongue. Fear of the consequences, as administered by Council Member Mace Windu, kept many a miscreant padawan from straying too far beyond innocent pranks – if they dared even that much.

It had always amazed Obi-Wan, especially as a junior padawan, how Qui-Gon and Mace could argue for hours, even occasionally bellowing at each other only to end up hoisting a drink together in perfect harmony.

As he had matured and proven himself capable of discretion, Mach had increasingly shed his Jedi master persona and revealed the man he was – flaws, sarcastic humor, and graciousness –without self-censoring his words or behavior in front of him, something that Obi-Wan had thought in private was just because his presence had come to be overlooked – because he was Qui-Gon's padawan.

Even after the breach in that friendship – even after Qui-Gon's repudiation of Obi-Wan as unworthy of the name "Jedi" - that same consideration was still being extended to him, but in ways that suggested it was more than just that of an older Jedi to an ailing younger one. This consideration was personal, not just a byproduct of another relationship of long duration.

There were many things Obi-Wan was no longer sure of – images, memories, hopes, nightmares all tangled so that which was the reality and that which was the illusion of his life was no longer clear, but he was sure of one thing – Mace Windu, and to a lesser extent, Yoda, Bant and the other healers didn't seem to care if he was or was not the same Obi-Wan they had known.

For all he knew, he was as much a stranger to them as to himself, but it didn't matter. Not one iota. They merely cared for _him_, whoever he was, might have been, and might someday become, and it was the one thing that kept depression from overwhelming him.

He held fast to that one inescapable truth: Mace was there for him; in the healers and since bringing him here to his own quarters. Wrapped in endless silence or huddled in a blanket, he was never allowed to feel as if he were alone.

These were the images and feelings he could trust, only these.

At times his mind would conjure up images of Qui-Gon – strong hands gripping his shoulder in concern, a mock-disgusted tug on his nerf-tail or a warm smile of approval – only to replace those images with new ones: the harsh disgust on his face, the scowl of disapproval, the slap across a cheek as the worst pain he could imagine ripped through his mind.

He tried to tell himself all those images were real, but he couldn't hold onto those earlier ones, the ones of companionship and friendship.

The sting of betrayal had scarred him to mistrust of those happier memories – _but who had truly been the betrayer and who the betrayed?_

Qui-Gon Jinn had betrayed his trust, but Qui-Gon Jinn would never do so unless betrayed himself.

So betrayed he must have been, by his padawan. By Obi-Wan Kenobi, as he had been by his former apprentice. As he would not be, by his new apprentice.

Qui-Gon Jinn had told him so himself, and Qui-Gon Jinn didn't lie. No matter what Mace Windu said, no one knew Obi-Wan as well as his former master did. And he had not full access to his memories, only his emotions: emotions, that as a Jedi, he should not indulge in. Emotions that he weathered as best he could, emotions that Mace did not hold against him, but comforted him through.

He was grateful beyond measure, embarrassed beyond tears, and calmed to an uneasy acceptance that he _was_ damaged in ways both large and small – and Mace Windu would help him through it. He did not have to weather this alone.

When he looked up in thanks for the refilled cup placed in his hand, he was entirely unaware that all that was in his heart was also visible in the depths of his eyes, easily read by the older Jedi.

Mace said gently, "You are still Jedi, still Obi-Wan, tears and laughter and everything. You _are_, and you have to realize this, deep inside. One day you will be able to access the Force as you once did, but even if you don't, you will always belong to the Jedi and the Force."

The words should have comforted him. But they did not.

* * *

There was a soft shimmer in Obi-Wan's eyes that made Mace frown, the glance upwards through eyes shaded by lashes. Was the boy so secure in his knowledge that Qui-Gon's damning words on Naboo were accurate?

After a moment's reflection, he admitted the boy's loyalty would overrule his reason – how could it not, when his very mind was bruised and shaken?

His heart, shattered or not, never flinched or turned away from another, just cause or not.

"It's not your Force abilities that make you special; it's you. The person Obi-Wan Kenobi is. You have formidable talents with or without the Force backing you up. The Order will always need you – your skill at negotiating, your wry humor - all these impressive skills can't be allowed to go to waste. You can still serve the Force in ways yet to be discovered."

"But not as a Jedi." The murmur was all but inaudible, a soft tremble of a voice many found pleasing to the ear.

"Believe, Obi-Wan. You will find your strength as you heal; you will become more than this quiet, sad-eyed man who right now doesn't see where he fits into the life he foresaw for himself."

"Because I do not fit in – not any longer."

And this was a simple statement of fact, underlain with despair, an emotion Obi-Wan no longer allowed himself to indulge in. Like anger, it was an emotion he had long ago subdued, yet Mace knew all too well that emotions were never discarded; only controlled. When the part of the mind that held reign over one's emotions was damaged, even Jedi mental disciplines were insufficient to keep them at bay.

Mace could not encourage the expression of such emotions but he could not try to suppress them either. Only a healed mind was a disciplined mind.

Torn between acknowledging or ignoring the words, torn between offering understanding or offering a good dose of logic, Mace studied the young Jedi and wished that Yoda would show up. The old Jedi always knew the right words to say, be they kind or not, for sometimes kindness went awry when harsher words were what was needed. But the Force did not magically propel Yoda to his doorstop. The Force did not tell him what to say, either, only nudged him to say something for _anything_ was better than silence, _anything_ told Obi-Wan he was not on his own.

Would a cold, hard statement of fact reach this troubled young man, a reminder that one's focus did truly determine one's reality as Yoda so often preached? Sometimes kindness _was_ best provided by its lack.

He let a little softness fade from his voice. "This is not like you, Obi-Wan, to focus on what cannot be done rather than what can; you know you are more than this."

Obi-Wan shook his head in denial, the hurt plain in his face. He wasn't ready to believe, not yet. That was yet to come.

If Mace could have taken back the words, he would. Silently he cursed himself and the absent Yoda as Obi-Wan stared at his intertwined fingers and whispered, "Once perhaps. Perhaps, again. But now…no. That man is gone; a part of him died on Naboo. The best part, leaving what you see behind."

He resolutely straightened in his seat.

_This is who I am. Accept me_ _as I am_. Mace didn't bother to disabuse the young man of his near challenge. His posture may have blazed defiance, but Obi-Wan's eyes betrayed the vulnerability he tried to hide. _Hide weakness beneath strength; strength you shall find_. He was taking that Jedi maxim a little too much to heart.

The senior Jedi understood this was not the time to push, so he merely looked at him and held his tongue, for right now there was nothing he could say.

He could not reach Obi-Wan, not yet.

Let Obi-Wan think as he did. Mace knew better. The Obi-Wan he knew was somewhere inside, trapped by the wound he had taken on Naboo, struggling to find a way out. That Obi-Wan rarely cried, and never for himself. That Obi-Wan made wisecracks. That Obi-Wan had laughing eyes.

This Obi-Wan didn't live each day, he endured it. Without protest, without flinching, and without joy. It broke Mace's heart to see the young man suffer from something that was never his fault but for which he would always accept blame.

Obi-Wan would have to find his own way to his own truth – but not alone. Mace would be at his side as long as he was needed.

Force willing.


	25. Confrontation

I recognize that some find my stories slow moving and short of action. That happens to be my style, and while I might wish I could tighten up the stories (and actually do, after I've stepped away and gained some perspective) - "it ain't goin' to happen." If 24 chapters have gone nowhere, so will a number more. Action-oriented stories are elsewhere on this fan site and I wish you great enjoyment of them.

**To everyone - whether you're enthralled or bored - I wish each and everyone one of you a safe and Happy New Year! **

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**Chapter 25**. **Confrontations**

Gratitude.

It made Mace Windu just a bit uneasy: what need had a Jedi – had _he_ - for gratitude?

Oh, he _understood_ gratitude – he could feel it radiating in the Force from misbehaving padawans or younglings when punishment for any infractions they may have committed were less severe than anticipated.

Of course, such gratitude was never personal, never directed _at_ Mace Windu; instead, it was usually directed at the Force for saving them _from_ Mace Windu.

But gratitude from an ailing Jedi, for doing little more than any Jedi would do in the same circumstances, discomfited him. He was comfortable with who he was and who he was perceived to be. Warm and fuzzy he was not, not by choice or by temperament.

Blast the boy and his gratitude, anyway!

Obi-Wan was not going to change that. It just wasn't going to happen. Not if Mace could help it. The easiest way to deflect it was to twist it and make it work to his advantage.

Therefore, being the crafty Jedi he was, Mace had no compunction about taking advantage of Obi-Wan's gratitude with a request they take a stroll together to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, a few days later. It was perhaps not fair to ask, for Obi-Wan would not deny the request, not from one to whom he felt beholden.

It seemed the right thing to do to help him towards healing.

Most Jedi, not just Obi-Wan, found the gardens restful, a place where the Force and nature were in harmony. So whether or not he cared to be seen around the Temple, the young Jedi would go and immerse himself in the tranquility of life rather than continue to hide from it. It would do him good, or so Mace had justified his request, squashing down any hint of hesitation.

Whatever trepidation the young man may have felt, he covered well. Any protest he might have made died unsaid before his lips could even form words.

Wordlessly he had nodded.

His hesitation was one sign of how much damage Obi-Wan had suffered; his acquiescence one sign of how strong he was despite that. He was – not quite _afraid_, no, that wasn't the word Mace wanted – but determined to face what he preferred not.

Strength of character would see Obi-Wan through this; for one so young, the boy had a will and determination that could overcome nearly any obstacle.

Mace felt a twinge of something he would never call "paternal pride," no, he thought it mere admiration.

Progress was slow, for Obi-Wan still tired easily and his left side was still just a bit weak. Mace had chosen a time when few Jedi would be in the halls or gardens. Obi-Wan relaxed visibly when he settled on a stone bench amidst the red of K'a'rinda blooms.

"No one stared," he murmured.

"And why would anyone stare at you?" Mace decided to play along, well aware that Obi-Wan had not meant to be overheard.

After a moment's silence, Obi-Wan raised innocent eyes to Mace. "Me?" A hint of his old humor surfaced. "I was referring to you - everyone probably scurried off as soon as they saw you."

"Me? Yoda's the one with the gimer stick." With a broad wink, Mace pretended to be affronted at the implication. In truth he was inordinately pleased that some part of the old Obi-Wan had surfaced.

"In case they had to face the infamous Windu scowl." The wry turn of his lips – for a moment – broadened into the impish grin of old.

"You really _are _an impudent brat." No sooner were the admiring words out of his mouth, then Mace winced. That had been Qui-Gon's favorite affectionate epithet for his padawan. This was the first time Mace had known the words to fail to bring the usual grin and fond retort in kind.

"Please, don't!" Obi-Wan exclaimed, interrupting Mace's apology. A faint flush crept up his face. "I mean – please don't apologize, Master Windu. I don't want to be treated like an invalid who has to be protected from reminders of, well, his past life."

"You can't blame us from wanting to avoid anything that may cause you further hurt." Changing the subject abruptly, Mace pointed to the water and suggested Obi-Wan soak his feet.

* * *

The warm water was soothing and so clear that each small grain of sand or small pebble could be seen in fine detail until one wiggled one's toes and watched the swirling patterns obscure the shapes and colors beneath.

Like life, like the Force, the patterns would smooth for a while once the disturbance was past.

Pink and white, gray and black, spotted or striped, the tiny pebbles were all of a size and all so very different. Rounded, no really rough edges on any, unique and ever-changing as the sweep of the artificial "sun" swept in its arc, that which was unique and singular diminishing in shadows to a uniformity that vanished when highlighted by angular light, only to brighten to near uniformity once more under direct light.

The pebbles and grains of sand under water: a lesson in life itself, Obi-Wan thought.

The Sith – true evil, all dark in nature unless struck by angled light that proved them perhaps to be individuals with perhaps a swirl of goodness normally hidden. The "Chosen One" so full of light that all within range could see little else.

With a mental shake of his head, Obi-Wan re-focused on the swirling patterns, letting his mind move in a lazy rhythm that matched the swirls. He had always been enthralled by moving patterns – in water, in dancing flames, or in the sweep of clouds across a sky – the pulse of life itself and infinitely calming.

After a while he rested his head on his arms, propped on bent knees, and absently watched flitter flies dart amongst the colorful blossoms not so far away.

A low rumble in his stomach reminded him it was nearly midday meal. Perhaps his appetite was coming back, perhaps a sign that the nausea was abating as well. At least the dizziness no longer plagued him as it had the first few times he had risen from his bed in the Healers' Ward.

He stood and stretched lazily, grabbed his socks and indoor footwear, and turned to find a pair of bright blue eyes appraising him from a few feet away. Inwardly he gulped as his stomach did a flip-flop.

_Not good_.

"Good day to you, Anakin. How do you like being – a padawan?" The words were polite.

"Rather well. Master Qui-Gon is the best master in the Temple," Anakin boasted. His face grew sly. "Of course, you knew that. He was your master once."

"I – yes, he was," Obi-Wan acknowledged, tugging on his footwear and then twisting his fingers into fists as his hands tucked deeper within the sleeves of the robe he had quickly shrugged on, ready to make his escape. Even as he thought that, he wondered at the word his mind dredged up: Escape.

Regardless, he felt his anxiety level spiking – then espied the reason why.

"Anakin, move away from Obi-Wan. Come here, please." The authoritarian voice rang out as the big Jedi strode forward purposefully.

"We were just exchanging – pleasantries." Why was he flushing, like he had done something forbidden?

The slight defensive tone in his reply prompted another sly grin from Anakin. Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed a fraction. Anakin had initiated the contact expecting Qui-Gon to interfere – but for what reason and why would Qui-Gon care about a simple, civil, and if Obi-Wan had _his_ way, very short conversation?

"Please don't do so again. It is best for Anakin not to -," Qui-Gon's eyes flickered as he saw Mace approaching rapidly, wearing a formidable scowl. "I prefer Anakin to have no contact with you."

Something perverse in Obi-Wan prompted him to stand tall and coolly ask as if the answer meant nothing to him, "And you?"

"Our time together has come and gone. I don't expect we will cross paths often." The voice held no warmth, no recognition that only weeks ago they were companions and comrades. "Anakin does not need to be exposed to – well – my duty is protect him." The large hands dropped on Anakin's shoulders and turned the boy around.

Obi-Wan stood frozen, impossible thoughts beating in his head.

_Protect? Does not need to be exposed to?_

He had killed, yes; the Zabrak, the Sith – but that was hardly reason to – to protect Anakin. Was it?

He fought to control the trembling in his body.

* * *

Mace glared at Qui-Gon Jinn and Anakin Skywalker, neither of whom was in a position to see, backs turned as they walked away. A simple encounter - and one easily avoided - looked suspiciously like a confrontation, considering the rigidity in the young Jedi's body. No point now in reproaching himself for not having stayed nearer at hand, able to intervene. He needed to deal now with what had happened; dealing with why would have to come later.

He turned his attention back to Obi-Wan, pale and obviously shaken although the rigidity was fading before his very eyes, melting into a kind of stunned disbelief and sick fear that was nearly concealed from sight, if not the Force.

"Obi-Wan?" Mace ventured cautiously.

"I'm – I'm fine," he answered, almost mechanically as if not really hearing, his fingers escaping his sleeves to again clutch the edges of his cloak. It was a gesture Mace was becoming familiar with, a new habit, born of an inner chill.

_I'd cheerfully strangle Qui-Gon,_ Mace thought rather sourly as Obi-Wan bowed a bit absently, tucked his head and hands into his cloak, and walked away. The proud, straight posture was never less evident; the young Jedi now walked with a slump to his shoulders, visible evidence of his sadness and confusion. _He's ruined perhaps the finest Jedi the Order has seen in some time, certainly the finest of his generation._

"Much more than most of us he will yet be, if less than he might have been," Yoda observed from behind, almost as if he had been reading his thoughts.

Mace uncoiled and looked at Yoda, taken not at all by surprise by the diminutive Jedi's sudden appearance. "Meaning – I hope you've had a vision, though you've yet to have one that actually doesn't have a downside to its upside."

"To all consequences and actions there are reactions," Yoda was not at all perturbed by the near-accusation. Nor did he elaborate, only changed the subject. "Dark thoughts mark your aura."

Mace snorted as if that was hardly worthy of mention. "What that man has done to him…."

"Stolen his light it seems."

"So it seems."

"Not all is as it seems."

After that soft murmur and contemplative glance at each other, both Jedi were content to remain silent.

The "what" of what happened had already been explored: the abrupt severing of the bond, along with the physical wound that was already draining the exhausted padawan combined with his valiant effort to save Qui-Gon Jinn with the Force, had overtaxed the young man's mind and brain.

The "why" was still largely speculation. Obi-Wan couldn't and Qui-Gon wouldn't provide any kind of in-depth explanation.

Answers would have to come from elsewhere. Yoda, along with Yaddle, sought them within the Force. Mace dealt instead with the consequences.

"Glad I am that another to care for he has." Yoda smirked, a rare expression for him. "Even more glad I am that you, Master Windu, care for him as do you. Wounded that young man is, needs affection to help heal. Expected it to come from you, I did not."

"Blast it!" Mace exploded. "I am, I suppose, a bit protective of young Kenobi – "

"Fond you are," Yoda corrected. A gentle smile came over his face as he conceded, "As am I. Affection that boy gathers to him as freely as he bestows it. When withdrawn that is, something of himself he loses."

* * *

Searching for affection was exactly how Mace would have described it when he and Yoda found Obi-Wan.

The young Jedi had always had an unerring instinct and understanding of others' hidden emotional truths no matter the outer façade except when it had mattered most.

That instinct had only truly failed him once: the first few months of his apprenticeship. Such was understandable, for Qui-Gon had been confused himself, trying to deny growing affection while admitting their pairing was all but ordained by the Force.

The two Jedi had decided to give the young man a chance to regroup before they intruded with questions as to what aspect of the "confrontation" with his former master and his new apprentice had so disturbed him. Obi-Wan was going to have to learn how to cope with their presence someday; he might well have been shocked more by the unexpectedness of the encounter than the encounter itself.

That hope was quickly proven false.

Seemingly oblivious to their entry, Obi-Wan huddled within a warm throw, tucked tight against a corner of Mace's couch.

The young man was absently toying with his braid, staring at a holo of himself over the years. His attentive expression and near-desperate eyes seemed to search for meaning – perhaps a search for himself – in each image. Small smiles of genuine warmth and joy lightened his face as he viewed holos of himself when young: a cheerful toddler who barely walked, a young boy with mischievous eyes and an innocent grin about age five, and a boy playing with his friends about age seven.

A thumb rubbed his chin at a solemn-eyed boy of age twelve or so, a boy who knew time was running out and his future running away.

He was motionless, face frozen in an unemotional stare that belied inner turmoil as he watched the holos over his apprenticeship – growing from an uncertain and shy padawan to a composed and confident one, secure in his place. Now it was all too clear that he believed that security a lie: a mere illusion born only of his hope.

"Why?" he murmured, a pained whisper of a word at the final holo. It showed Qui-Gon with his arm relaxed around his padawan's shoulders, both of them laughing at something out of sight. The camaraderie and the affection would bring a smile to all but the dourest of Jedi. It had been taken just a few weeks previously.

Mace gently cleared his throat and wrapped a warm hand around the smaller, trembling hand, a gesture asking that the holo be relinquished into his care.

"Do you want to know why, Obi-Wan?" With a sigh, Obi-Wan put the holo into the extended hand and twisted to face his temporary guardian. "There is no why," Mace firmly answered the half-fearful, half-expectant gaze.

"The Will of the Force." Obi-Wan murmured without hesitation, offering his quiet acceptance of the answer that he had been taught from the beginning of his apprenticeship to be the answer to all things unknowable.

"For many things a great excuse but not for all things." Obi-Wan's eyes shifted to the older Jedi. They held a gentle admonishment and great tenderness as well. "What in particular has so upset you, young one?"

Obi-Wan dropped his eyes and slowly shook his head, a silent refusal that could mean he himself could not put words to it – or wished not to. Whatever had been said, it had hurt and confused him. Mace just hoped Yoda knew just what to say, for he certainly did not.

"Speak you must." The voice was firm but soft, as gentle as the clawed hand that patted the hand tightly clenched on one knee. "Hurting you are – but friendless and an outcast you are not. Hard it may be but help you we cannot if you do not speak to us."

So softly that Mace had to strain to hear it, Obi-Wan whispered, "With all due respect, Master Yoda, there is little to say."

"Plenty to say there is." Yoda thumped his stick against the floor. "Anger, fear, hurt – all these things you must acknowledge within yourself. Your grief and sadness we know of, no more and no less than your other emotions are they. Harmful they are if bottled up; diminish you in no way do they."

"Yoda's right, Obi-Wan," Mace agreed. "It's perfectly understandable if you were hurt by seeing Anakin with Qui-Gon – but, no, that wasn't it, was it?" No doubt that had hurt, but that wasn't the problem. Something more than that was troubling Obi-Wan. On a hunch, he added, "Did Qui-Gon mention Naboo?"

That got a reaction: Obi-Wan's eyes flashed to Mace. Pained eyes confirmed his guess, but not words.

"Did he give a reason for his behavior there?"

Obi-Wan wet his lips, but did not speak. He would not lie but he would not speak the truth either. The young man had never willingly accused others of misbehavior when it related to himself – it had kept him silent when bullied when young as it kept him now silent.

"Obi-Wan…." Recalling Qui-Gon's words in Council, Mace suddenly had a very good idea what could have so troubled the young man. "Did he threaten you, accuse you -."

The young man's resistance crumpled, a muscle working in his throat as he denied the accusation. His truth would not allow a harsher charge be allowed against his former master, just as Mace had hoped.

"No! He accused me of nothing, not directly; he just warned me – to keep my distance – said that Anakin needed to be protected from me. He just wanted to protect his padawan. From me! I would never hurt Anakin, Master Windu, Master Yoda. Not knowingly."

Mace's lips tightened and he exchanged a long look with Yoda.

"He always warned me to control my anger." Obi-Wan's fingers clenched tight in his lap. "I didn't. I didn't. I touched the dark. I remember now. He fears my very presence – is tainting Anakin – am I – did I…is he right? Did I fall on Naboo? Am I now tainted with the dark?"

Stormy gray eyes pleaded for the truth that he feared to hear.

"Stop, Obi-Wan!" Yoda's voice cut through the sense of horror that was spreading over the young Jedi. "Touching the dark means nothing and everything; touching the dark _is_ no more and no less than a padawan's Trial to knighthood. To touch the dark is not to embrace it. Repudiated the dark and made your choice on Naboo – to serve the light, even at the risk of your mortal life. You chose there to be a Knight of the Order, even if you knew it not."

"Yoda's right."

Obi-Wan dashed a hand across eyes fever-bright with uncertainty. Could he not reconcile a heretofore-unknown truth with a reality he all too fervently believed in?

_You can't force him into a belief he is not yet ready to accept, but you can give him a goal. _

"Don't prove Qui-Gon right, prove him wrong."

As Mace hoped, his words sparked something: curiosity.

Hesitantly, Obi-Wan asked, "About what?"

"That you're worthy of the name Jedi. Prove to him that your brush with the dark only made you stronger and more worthy of the name than – some. That your capacity to forgive the harm done to you speaks more of your worthiness than any deeds you may have done or might do. That you earned and are worthy of the title Jedi Knight."

A bitter snort greeted the words, much to Mace's chagrin. The words had backfired; further proof that that the damage to Obi-Wan's mind had left its marks in ways yet to be discovered.

"A knight without the Force; a hollow gesture for a hollow man. I want the Force back – I want to breathe it, to feel it, to see with it – I would willingly trade the title for that feeling. A part of me has been torn away and I'm half-empty without it and nothing – nothing fills it. Nothing."

With a tiny smile, Yoda prodded the wound. "Half a man you are, then. Disappointed in you I am." As cruel, as hurtful as the words were, Yoda's pain at speaking them reverberated in the Force along with sorrow and grief.

Obi-Wan's hurt was even more powerful; his shock palpable.

"Promising Jedi you were. Wise and strong for one so young. Had both the heart and the mind of a Jedi; most important skills of a Jedi they are, far more than prowess with the sword. Now flinch from the truth you do." Yoda leaned forward and gazed fiercely into eyes that would not – could not – look away. "Believe in one man's hurtful words you do and believe nothing of what I or Master Windu say. Believe not what your heart tells you. Believe not as a Jedi, but as a rejected boy whose fate rests in the good words of another. Bah. I know not this Obi-Wan Kenobi. Gone my Obi-Wan is."

A stifled, forlorn cry stopped Yoda as he turned away. "Not gone…taken. Taken." Just saying the words seemed to have exhausted Obi-Wan, for Loyalty and Truth had battled bitterly. He fell to his knees, head bent.

"Taken indeed, my Obi-Wan. Lie to you I never will." Yoda leaned forward and cupped the young man's chin with a gentle hand. "A great disservice Qui-Gon did to you. Blame not yourself. Accept your former master as human and capable of wrong, for a great wrong he has done you. Know you what's inside you but acknowledge it you do not – and acknowledge it you must to move beyond it. Trust me do you?"

"I – I," Obi-Wan could barely get words out. "I can't trust you both."

"Trust Qui-Gon, or Mace, or I, is not what I ask. I ask you to trust yourself."

Obi-Wan threw back his head and screamed; a choked, guttural, soft scream.

"Good, young one; good. Let it go, release the pain." Yoda's hand rested on the shoulder beneath him. "Release what is in your soul – your heart – your mind. Judge you we will not."

Obi-Wan brought his hands to his face and shuddered. A low moan escaped, then a hitched breath, and finally words, starting slowly and building in intensity.

"Half of me was ripped away and I don't know where that half is or how to get it back. Why – why would Qui-Gon – why would the Force do that to me? Why?"

By the time he finished speaking, anger and tears were leaking out in equal measure, just as Yoda wanted. Satisfied that the wound was lanced and some of the poison was draining, Yoda leaned forward and wiped clawed hands along the wet tracks of released pain as if he wished to wipe away the pain itself. He could not, Mace knew, no one could heal that wound but Obi-Wan himself.

"Why is the question that might never be answered. What you will do about it remains to be seen. Great hurt you have suffered, only right it is that pain you feel but pain unexpressed is pain unreleased. Room you have made for the Force, a space for it to fill."

One clawed hand moved upwards to rest on the bent head, as if bestowing the Force's blessings. It reminded Mace of a painting he had once seen. Even now he could not remember the medium or the artist, only its emotional impact. He had thought it a perfect representation of the power and the peace of the Force: a gentle hand lying on a troubled brow.

Offering peace to a wounded and weary soul.

It had even more impact seen in real life.

* * *

Note: this actually seems a great chapter to end a year with - Mace Windu reflecting on gratitude, the "benediction" - I sure didn't plan that.


	26. Plots and Schemes Galore

**Chapter 26. Plots and Schemes Galore**

"_Worry do not."_

Mace snorted at the memory. Fine for the little troll to say. No matter how necessary, his words had shattered an already fragile Obi-Wan and Mace had been left to wonder if he should wring Yoda's neck along with Qui-Gon's. Even, perhaps, his own.

"_Torn down the foundation of his beliefs we have succeeded in, but still the rubble to clear out before a new foundation can be laid."_

Yoda may have been correct; no, Mace had to admit, Yoda _had_ been correct: the troubled young man had needed to stop clinging to the lie that had sustained him. _Let go of all you know_ had been Yoda's challenge, but what it had left in its place was doubt.

Obi-Wan did not know what to believe any longer.

So he had all but withdrawn into himself, a weary figure tucked into the corner of Mace's couch, wrapped in exhaustion and a comforter.

Hiding.

"_Not hiding, healing."_ Yoda pronounced. He had sounded so confident. Mace was less sure, glancing at the listless Jedi on his couch. He'd trust Yoda – for now.

"Here, Obi-Wan," he said, nudging a shoulder. When the young man looked up, he offered a cup of hot caf. He was rewarded with a wan smile of thanks.

And that, at least, was something.

* * *

Obi-Wan leaned his head against the back of the couch, fingers slack at the edge of the ever present blanket. There was nothing left in him, no warmth, only numbness, since he'd poured out all the bottled up pain. His fingers slipped, the downward movement drawing his attention. He studied his hands, lying limp in his lap, moving his gaze from the tips of his fingers to the smooth palms. They were not the hands of a Jedi, callused and able to be both strong and gentle.

Once they had been, he mused, remembering all too often wielding a lightsaber when words failed – then those same hands comforting an innocent when the sword had done its duty – sometimes his hands, sometimes those of – no, he let his mind drift away, back to the quiet contemplation of his hands.

A Jedi had strong yet gentle hands – his were only gentle, now.

What, then, or who was he?

Was he hibernating; an animal resting through a long dreary spell waiting for spring? Was he hiding, a wounded animal, easy prey? Was he even real, this shell of who and what he had once been, lost and unable to find his way?

A ghost; that was sometimes what he thought he was. An illusion. Existence was just as ephemeral as his life; a life without substance as he had once known it, even if not too dissimilar to those who had never touched the Force. Even so, he might have more than drifted through these days, had he been otherwise whole. He could not, for he knew he was not.

And so he had been haunting Mace's rooms like that ghost, seeking redemption perhaps, solitude certainly.

He had not had to seek answers that did not exist, not when there had been no one to ask the questions. Yoda, Mace, Bant – all had been content to let him be content, offering their presence and no more than he was willing to accept.

He was now beginning to realize how much they had given; had much he had taken without giving anything back.

Wasn't that why Yoda had challenged him that day to face his losses? The awful realization of his losses had been truly devastating, a crescendo of escalating pain and shock that had disrupted his mental equilibrium, far worse than Qui-Gon's words and the implications that lay behind them.

Yet of one thing he was certain: Yoda had not meant to hurt him. He was being challenged – to rise above circumstances, above injury, above sorrow – to face down the past and look forward to the future.

To live and not just to exist.

There was no room for self-pity in a life lived well. He didn't wish the faded ghost to become one in reality, either.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He had to demand his life if he wished to live it and not let anyone else dictate the terms, though his shoulders slumped at what a task lay before him.

"_You are strong, Obi-Wan; you will find your strength in time."_

_Was_ he strong enough to believe in himself when he wasn't all that sure what beliefs were real or not? Had he strength enough to face the accusations in his former master's eyes should he encounter him again? He doubted himself; his strength.

"_You are strong, Obi-Wan; you will find your strength in time."_

Yoda and Mace believed in him. They lent him their strength when his own was faltering.

But he knew he couldn't be the Obi-Wan Kenobi they hoped he would be again. Not anymore. He vaguely remembered that man, but that man was not he.

Not any longer.

But he would try to find as much of that man as he could, for all those who stood beside him.

It was what a Jedi would do.

A voice startled him out of his thoughts; a hand settled a cup of tea in his hand and then moved to his shoulder, gripping it in a reassuring squeeze.

Mace.

"You will remember how to live, Obi-Wan. I want to help you remember and you will get through this. You owe me nothing – you owe yourself."

The hand squeezed again; in it, strength. Finally, Obi-Wan began to feel it steal through him as well.

* * *

"Master Qui-Gon, sir," Anakin called out. As hoped, the Jedi master slowed his step and looked over his shoulder and down at his padawan with an apologetic smile that said _I'm sorry_. Anakin couldn't quite bring himself to smile back, even though the man slowed his steps. Master Qui-Gon still kept forgetting the padawan at his side was Anakin, just a boy, much smaller and with shorter legs. He couldn't keep up with the Jedi without skipping or running, all of which was frowned on. He knew, because _he'd_ been frowned on, when he'd been oh-so-gently and oh-so condescendingly reminded of "the rules."

A stupid rule, too. What if one was simply in a hurry and _needed_ to run, or keep up with one's master?

Master Qui-Gon still strode the halls as if the oh-so-proper Kenobi, the prior padawan, was the requisite step behind. Anakin hated the expectation that he do the same. It indicated inferior status and he resented it as he resented so much, but at least Master Qui-Gon tolerated him skipping along at his side when there weren't many other Jedi around.

He dug his fingers into his palms and let out a frustrated huff.

He didn't want to be merely tolerated, even if that was better than being ignored or being used. He didn't want to be known just as "the slave boy" just as he didn't want to be known just as "the Chosen One" – he wanted to be known as Anakin Skywalker as well, wanted not to be just a tool used by others. Everyone had _expectations_ of him: he was used and commanded and told what to do and often how to do it. He should be the one commanding others what to do and how to do it.

Someday he'd do just that as he grew into his power as the Chosen One, the mighty one, the one who could move the stars and save a galaxy. He'd issue the orders and others would have to jump to his wishes.

But not yet.

In the meantime, he held an uncanny control over Qui-Gon's past apprentice and he savored every moment of it. Weakness was to be exploited, for only the strong triumphed.

So he did as he was bid and added his own flourishes to it. He had been asked – nay, commanded - to drive a wedge between Master and Padawan, but he had done more than that! He had driven them apart beyond any hope of reconciliation. Now he was merely tormenting further the tormented and it felt good, oh so good, to hold the upper hand and to be feared – only that Council's pet Obi-Wan Kenobi didn't fear him yet.

Not yet.

_Mom wouldn't approve. _

_But Mom_ he almost whined back to that mental voice, that unwelcome reminder that his mother would not understand. She had never, ever understood that to be compliant meant to accept not being in control of one's one destiny. For now, he was riding on another's destiny, but the destiny was his – ultimately his…and Kenobi was just the first to fall so that he might himself rise.

And he'd gotten to Kenobi. He'd seen fear flash across that face when he'd turned and found Anakin mere feet away from him. He'd wanted to run even if he had held his ground. He knew Anakin held the upper hand and he had cowered in his boots, the poor pitiful Jedi whose spirit as well as mind was half broken, who hid away from everyone, and who needed someone else to fight his battles – but he wasn't fully broken yet. That day was coming.

He was silently congratulating himself when Qui-Gon's voice broke into his thoughts.

"You initiated that contact with him, didn't you?"

Anakin had thought it had been forgotten; neither had alluded to that day. Until now. The question, soft-voiced and without inflection, now came without warning.

His head jerked upright. Qui-Gon was not looking at him, but inward. Was he – did he –?

"I – uh…."

"Don't lie to me, Anakin, don't lie." He turned then and gazed at the boy. "I've heard too many lies from -" his hand made a quick, sharp gesture, "I only want the truth and an explanation. I won't be angry at you; I'm angry at him."

_When the truth won't do, tell as little as possible, and your words will be accepted as truth._

His breath quickened. "You – you won't punish me?"

He saw it then, his "out": the sharp anguish of horror and revulsion that knifed through the Jedi master's eyes. One could hide deceit in truth, it seemed, as well. Qui-Gon did care for him - _loved _him more every time he was reminded of Anakin's past. He'd always been taught that love was intricately entwined with pain. Pain, lies and deceit now bonded them, as with _him_ – but Qui-Gon wanted to take his pain away, not inflict it.

Just like the mother he'd left behind.

For a moment Anakin wanted to tell him everything, let out a great gush of words and be enveloped entirely in that love. But love came with a condition, he knew all too well, for all but his mother. She alone loved him unconditionally.

Qui-Gon loved him for being the Chosen One. He would never be just Anakin to him.

But that would have to be enough, to be loved enough to be wished he could be spared pain. That love was enough to cling to.

He wasn't going to allow anyone to come between them and him.

_No one, little one?_

He froze at the warning sharp in his mind. It was a gentle caress like the lick of a vibroblade across his shoulder blades, a promise that if he didn't behave, the next "caress" would be a mental slap. Anakin was not strong enough to keep his thoughts from _him_. And he feared _him_.

Someday he wouldn't. Someday he would kill _him_, when he had the power.

_He_ was amused, by the threat that was a thought.

_By that time, child, you will not wish to kill me, but will thank me for giving you this power._

"Oh, Ani." The big Jedi kneeled before him and cleared his throat. "I promise you any punishment you may earn will never be physical – well, perhaps scrubbing floors or some such may qualify as physical, but I will never lay a hand on you. Never. No Jedi will."

Eyes wide and solemn, Anakin bit his lip and then nodded.

Qui-Gon sighed. "Now that that is settled - didn't I tell you I wanted you to keep your distance? Not for his sake, Anakin, but for yours. Whatever prompted you to talk to him?"

Anakin cast about wildly for a thought, an idea, a reason and found a plausible one in Jedi teachings. "Doesn't a Jedi – forgive? I thought…."

"You thought you'd forgive him?" Qui-Gon settled on his heels, taken aback. "You could do that, Ani, as harsh as he was to you, you would forgive him?"

Pride. There was pride in that voice; Anakin basked in it. He yearned for it. He nodded. "I – I wanted to. For your sake, Master Qui-Gon. He was your padawan a long time; I know how he hurt you. So I thought I'd ask him if he…was sorry, and then maybe I could forgive him and maybe, maybe you wouldn't be so sad."

"Sad? I'm not sad, Anakin. I'm bitterly disappointed, but not sad. Obi-Wan – meant a lot to me, once, when I thought I knew him. I never knew him as well as I thought. I thought I'd trained him…like another – to never question the Force, to follow its lead no matter the path. I thought he – but he wasn't."

Like that, the pride was gone, replaced by pain. It tainted the undercurrents of the flow that tied them all together. Obi-Wan had taken that away. Qui-Gon didn't belong to him, yet. Obi-Wan just wouldn't let him go. And somewhere deep inside, Qui-Gon didn't want him to go, either.

Qui-Gon was so hurt and so sad deep down where he was all but unaware of it because he –

he …

…he loved Obi-Wan. And as long as he loved Obi-Wan, even if he was unaware of it, he could never fully belong to Anakin.

Jealousy surged through his small body wild and unchecked. He was allowed nothing of his own. Nothing!

Obi-Wan had no right – none – to make Qui-Gon feel bad, no right to be loved by him. He was right to hate Obi-Wan – because Qui-Gon did like him even if he didn't think he did, and Padmé liked him, and that meant that they had less room in their hearts for him. But he had been taught how to turn hate to strength, he could make Qui-Gon hate Obi-Wan; it wouldn't be all that hard.

Any insincerity in his words would be masked by naked emotion.

"I asked him if he was sorry for – for spreading lies about me. He's made everyone hate me," and the tremble in his voice was real, one of pure anger. He was the Chosen One, but everyone chose to dislike him. No one liked him. Everyone liked Obi-Wan, they blamed him for Obi-Wan, and even if they suspected what he'd done to him on Naboo, they had no right to blame Anakin. He did everything to protect his mother. Besides, he hadn't meant to kill Obi-Wan, not really; he'd just been so angry that he had Force-shoved Obi-Wan that time when Master Windu had caught him and he'd Force-swept Obi-Wan's legs out from under him to send him crashing headfirst into the bed to punish him for trying to steal Padmé.

Because no one stole anything that was his if he could help it. No one ever gave him a thing, all that he had was what he had fought for.

The words spilled from him, then, his breath hitching from rage and humiliation. "They hate me. Everyone blames me for taking you away from him. What if they take me away from you and make you take him back? Master Qui-Gon, I'd be alone; I wouldn't have any family if it weren't for you."

The tear that trickled from one eye was very real. His mom was far away and he couldn't protect her. Not that he ever could, but he tried. He had really tried. His only hope was to do as _he _said.

Who was protecting her now?

He just hoped she could survive until he had gained all the power he had been promised would be his. Then he could save his mother – from _him_. From Watto. From the threat of being sold, of being bargained, of being used.

He always knew, just how she felt. Felt the pain and humiliation deep within his own skin, safely locked within his alcove.

He knew, too, even if he didn't understand, just how _he_ felt. Felt the heated blood within his own veins when he trembled at the edge of adolescence himself, sick, betrayed, and trembling, because he knew how she so bravely endured what she dared not say no to.

He knew too well the cruel delight of taking one's pleasure upon one helpless to fight back.

Because a slave was not protected from life. Because a slave, even a boy, knew self-interest and self-preservation had to rein in compassion. Because he knew the world was cruel and would steal away everything if he did not grasp onto it with both hands and hold on, hold on so tight that he might inadvertently kill that which he sought to protect.

He still stared at the night skies, seeking angels amidst the stars – one angel in particular.

He'd been three, perhaps four or five, old enough to be torn from his mother's side and put to work, taught to obey, taught to hate. He'd been too young to fully understand and old enough to be punished for that lack, newly enslaved to a new and as yet unknown owner. Bedraggled and forlorn, crying in a corner, a warm wet nose and a whimper announced the arrival of an equally bedraggled and mistreated gehk-pup with a sore paw. Such a forlorn little thing, like him, that had crept into the perceived safety of Watto's shop away from its tormenters to nuzzle his ankle, offering love and devotion in return for the same.

He'd shared his meager rations and warmed the tiny body inside his tunic. "Iego;" named after the places he planned to escape to one day, taking his mom and his gehk-pup with him, the three of them, all together, safe together. But tomorrow was far off and the stars too big a wish away…but at least they were all together, Mom, Iego and he.

The dreams that exceeded his grasp only became within his grasp once _he_ showed up – and the boy who dreamed of freedom learned the price of his dreams.

It was the day he killed Iego.

He'd learned hate and anger that day, enough to kill but not enough to protect that which he loved. Anger might have freed him and saved Iego had he been older and wiser and stronger.

He would always remember that lesson: that was the day that _he_ had come and discovered Iego. He'd been giggling under the rough licks of the "victor" after their playful tussle, flat on his back and Iego pinning him down with four dirty paws.

It had been a rare carefree moment where he had been just a boy with his pet, not the slave boy with duties morning to night. Then a shadow had fallen over them – _he_ had again come, once more to instruct Anakin in the ways of power. It was his birthright, he had been told from the first time he had met this man. He had eagerly sought it until it was too late, and backing out was not possible.

He had his mother to protect. And now Iego.

Anakin slowly rose, gehk-pup held tight in his arms and all joy fled.

_He'd _scowled and said the "Chosen One" is to be feared, not loved. _Love is for the weak, child, give me that wretched thing so we may get on with your lessons._ Anakin merely clutched Iego tighter and refused, backing up a step when _he'd_ tried to wrench the shivering body away. He'd held on, tighter and tighter, not hearing the whimpers until they ceased, only understanding when he looked down to see that which he held onto was crushed against his chest in a protective embrace.

Dead.

Hate and anger flared, brighter than a bonfire on Boonta Eve. He'd dared to lift his eyes and scream, "I hate you! You killed her."

And _he'd_ chuckled and nodded in satisfaction. "Hate makes you powerful, boy, but you have to learn to properly focus it." Then he'd grabbed Anakin by the chin and twisted his face upwards. "But you don't hate me, do you? You hate yourself. _You_ killed that pathetic creature, my boy."

Then after his "lessons" he'd followed Anakin home and locked him in his alcove with the remains of his beloved Iego, and his mom – his mom – he hadn't truly wept since that night.

Mercifully his mother remembered nothing of that long, brutal night, her memory wiped for the lesson had been for Anakin: to remember the consequences of defiance.

He'd learned that lesson well: he would do anything, say anything to save his mother. Even – and his lips trembled – sacrifice Qui-Gon for his mother.

It would never come to that, he vowed.

All he had to do was remember how he hated the apprentice who had such a hold on Qui-Gon. He would steal him back, given a chance. Qui-Gon would go back, if he knew, if he was given that chance. _He_ told him, through that bond that connected him – all of them. _He_ fed his hate and fed his fear. Both were very real. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that the Jedi master – his master - ached whenever his former apprentice was nearby or when he was not, when his name was mentioned or not.

That tie was not easily severed. It stirred beneath the surface, it fought, beneath consciousness. The ache was for what was and a wish for it to be once more.

So he would fan that fear within the master just as _he_ wished, for both of them. Because Qui-Gon was meant to be his savior, the one who would make him powerful enough to save those he loved – and destroy those whom he did not.

And he intended it to first be that apprentice, no matter what exactly _he_ wanted. Because Qui-Gon was his and always would be.

His, just as his mother was. He who dared make a claim on them would regret it for the rest of his life.

"Family," the Jedi master echoed before turning to look down at the boy at his side. Anakin felt the sharp spike of a dull pain deep inside – and resented it even more; Qui-Gon for feeling it and himself for having to share it. He hated Obi-Wan for making Qui-Gon sad and he hated Obi-Wan for leaving a tiny piece of himself behind, a tiny place he was not allowed entrance, no matter how deeply buried.

Just as he hated that part of Qui-Gon that was held separate from him.

"The Jedi are your family, now – squabbling, jealous family at the moment, I suppose, but still family." He squatted and made sure he had Anakin's full attention. "Padawan, you belong to this family. Someday they will realize the same. Once – once everything settles down."

He clutched at the wave of warmth and reassurance washing over him. He could bask in that forever. He could stir Qui-Gon into loving just him, if he just made Qui-Gon mad enough at Obi-Wan.

"You promise? Because – because he said I took you away from him and someday he'd make me regret it."

Strong fingers suddenly clutched his arms as narrowed eyes gazed into his. "Regret – did he use that word – did he threaten you? That son of a – I told the Council I didn't want him near you. I told them. I knew it – oh, what a façade he put on for years – learning to hide his anger, his bitterness. Oh, I fell for it all right. Thought we'd put the past behind us, learned from it – _grew_ from it –"

"Oh, Master Qui-Gon." The little boy that lived deep within him, joyous and unsullied, surfaced for a brief moment. Qui-Gon now hated Obi-Wan, he must, he must because he did love Anakin, he did, he did. He threw his arms around the man. "You've got me – you've got me. Don't be sad, don't be sad. Forget him. You've got me."

That moment proved that good had not totally been erased within a young child's heart; that cruelty and avarice had not yet fully triumphed.

And the Force rejoiced for that little miracle.


	27. Finding ObiWan

**Chapter 27. Finding Obi-Wan**

Though he would never admit it, Mace Windu tended to enjoy a certain – albeit restrained – glee when Yoda was, well, mistaken. It didn't happen often, granted, making Mace wonder if Yoda was actually as wise as he appeared or just so in tune with the Force that he gleaned truths not others could not.

Yet, truth be told, there was a certain comfort in knowing Yoda was rarely wrong.

And so it was that when the little troll had been proven right – again – it was something Mace found both frustrating and reassuring, since this time he was right about Obi-Wan. The silent boy, staring out a frost-edged window, lost in fathomless thoughts, had begun to stir and renew himself much like a flower awakening from a dreary winter's rest to the promise of spring – and sought to establish his roots before unfurling to the sun.

How else to explain these new and tentative questions about who he had been other than as a search for those aspects of himself he thought misplaced or altered, perhaps a need to recapture the best of who he had been before he refashioned himself into the best he could now hope to be?

"Master Windu?" He hesitated and looked at his hands, then bit his lip and looked over at the Jedi master. "Tell me what I was like – before?"

Oh. Mace's mouth went dry. Phrased as a question, it was really a request, but not for information or reassurances, but this time, for truth. Truth was complicated, however, composed of more than mere facts.

Did he tell the boy – strange, he had been thinking of him more and more as a man before all this, and now, since all this, as a boy – did he tell him he rarely thought of himself, asking only how to help others? Did he tell him that as an initiate nearing choosing, at that time of fear and uncertainty, his self-absorbed concern for his future was one of the rare periods when he thought only of himself? Did he tell him that, recognizing his potential, he had been pushed and prodded, molded and guided into the fine young man he had become?

He would not tell him he had been a gifted padawan expected to be a gifted knight, for as yet no one knew if those gifts were scattered debris in the wake of injury. He would not tell him that his generous spirit had helped to heal a bitter, betrayed Jedi trapped in his past, and he most certainly would not tell him that it was that very healing that had made it possible for Qui-Gon to turn Obi-Wan into what he himself been rescued from - no, he sharply reminded himself, Obi-Wan was not bitter even if betrayed.

But what he could tell Obi-Wan was not what kind of a Jedi he had been or was expected to be – but what kind of man he had been - and still was.

"You were and are a gentle and forgiving soul, who has tempered and grown beyond a sometimes impatient and reckless boy into a thoughtful and intelligent young man who was – and is – a credit to the Order," he said simply. The flaws – and of course there were some – did not need to be spoken

Obi-Wan blinked and gazed uncertainly at Mace, slowly flushing as if the honest assessment had been little more than a solicited compliment. Pure Obi-Wan Kenobi, just as blunt honesty was pure Mace Windu. He had never been all that graceful at accepting praise, Mace belatedly remembered, always a bit uncertain such had been earned in the early years of his apprenticeship. With time, growing confidence and maturity, reception of praise had gone from a shy duck of the head to a soft "thank you" or grateful smile.

Now that uncertainty was back. Perhaps he really was unsure of who he had been. The healers had warned the Council this might well happen, and hadn't the young man already admitted he no longer knew which of his memories was real and which was not?

He might as well address that right away.

"Are you the Obi-Wan you were before this? No," he admitted; then interrupted himself, "but then you would not have been anyway, even had events unfolded otherwise. You _are_ the same Obi-Wan, because you will take this experience and grow from it as you have always done. The healers have not given up on you, young man. Yoda and I have not given up on you – the Force will not give up on you, either. And I'm fully confident you won't give up on yourself either, it's not in your nature. You just have no idea where you're heading yet, so you're doing what Obi-Wan Kenobi always does when the path is not clear."

A wry twist of the lips preceded his, "Sit in a corner and drink coca and tea all day long?"

Ah, good, there was a hint of a smile accompanying the words, a sign his humor was reasserting itself. "Analyze before action. Consider the consequences. Consult the Force then jump forward without fear."

A tentative smile was followed by a sigh. "I don't think I ever cried – before all this."

"No, not outwardly," Mace agreed.

"I'm getting better, I think, though the tears seem to come regardless of my wishes. Jedi don't…."

"Ordinarily, they don't, and yes, you have. There's no shame in that – you have no control yet over that part of your brain." He leaned over and tapped Obi-Wan on the forehead. "You're damaged, here, though you're getting better. Never be ashamed for something you can't control. Up here, right now, emotionally you are like a two-year-old crèchling, Obi-Wan, only minus the childish tantrums. Every tear, and every snort of laughter –"

"I don't 'snort'!" The indignation in the tone brought a bark of laughter from Mace.

"You don't – wait, you're right – I've confused you with the green troll. You know: short Jedi, big stick."

The irreverence had the desired effect. "_Master Yoda_," Obi-Wan corrected, half-scandalized. He looked around as if the Jedi master would suddenly materialize and whack the nearest ankle. "He doesn't snort!"

"Oh, no – what do you call this?" A passable imitation of the old master's laughter had the desired effect: Obi-Wan laughed. It was a pure and joyous peal of laughter and guilty agreement.

* * *

Not for the first time, Qui-Gon Jinn, arguably the Jedi most attuned to the Living Force currently in the Order, slumped against his seat back, unutterably weary and for once, uncertain.

Not of his padawan, but of himself.

Anakin Skywalker was, without doubt, a natural talent with an innate and someday phenomenal connection to the Force. He would hold the fate of the Order, the Republic, and the galaxy in his hands - someday, but today – today, he had been an exhausting and rambunctious boy, not the "Chosen One" upon whom all hopes were pinned.

His frustration at yet another day not fitting in with his age mates had been transformed into restless energy and movement interspersed with a thousand and one questions that only a child could dream up. After two padawans, Qui-Gon had mastered the art of providing answers to the unanswerable, but even he had not the answers to why Anakin was treated like such an outcast in the Temple.

Such behavior was just not tolerated in the Order. Even with Qui-Gon's history of legendary run-ins with the Council, there had always been mutual respect despite the vocal difference of opinions being aired.

Well, he reflected bitterly, at least until recently when he had apparently done the unforgiveable – defied the Order on behalf of the Force in deed and not just words. Even now that rankled, the frustration bubbling within his blood at the Council's callous refusal – oh, blast! – he could feel the headache building again, the one that had been plaguing him on and off since - he rubbed his head and pondered a moment - since Tatooine.

Though everything had really started on Naboo, Tatooine was at the crux of so many decisions and choices. It was where his disappointment in Obi-Wan had first surfaced, where his elation at finding the prophecy fulfilled flowered.

Obi-Wan had never believed in the prophecy, not like Xan had. But Obi-Wan had always believed in his master, his loyalty impervious to the disapproval of the Council or the pitying glances of others. Obi-Wan would do anything short of selling his soul for either the Force or for Qui-Gon – except -

Obi-Wan _had_ sold his soul.

A groan tore from his throat, of denied pain, of denied grief. _Why, Obi-Wan, why_?

Had it been for jealousy?

Obi-Wan would not have sold it so cheaply – for what, then?

So that Qui-Gon could live?

Qui-Gon buried his face in his hands. The horror of that thought was beyond imagination…that _he _could be the reason for his beloved padawan's fall – no, no, it had been Obi-Wan's choice. His alone, as Xan's had been. Obi-Wan was an adult, a padawan on the edge of knighthood. Naboo could have served as his trials. He had stood at the brink of the abyss – and chosen not to step back, but step forward.

And down.

The weight of that decision lay heavy on more than one pair of shoulders. Qui-Gon would rather have died, there at the Sith's hands, than live with the knowledge of yet another's padawan's fall.

_No_, he scolded himself, shaking himself as if from a dream, a nightmare.

_Forget about Obi-Wan, he made his choice as you made yours! Focus on the positive; focus on one given into your care!_

Focus on one still innocent of betrayal and deceit, of a boy incapable of such, chosen as he was by the Force itself to carry its banner. Focus on –

Yet instead of Anakin, he still saw in his mind's eye another boy, whose jeweled eyes were as bright as any crystal to be found on Ilum and equally as captivating.

_No!_

Why was the Force punishing him? Why was the Force filling his mind with these images but to torment him?

No matter how he tried to banish the face, it was Obi-Wan's face he saw, hurt and shocked before the Council, it was Obi-Wan's face, shocked and grief-stricken, bent over his pain-wrecked body on Naboo, and it was Obi-Wan's face, eyes forever open to eternity as his body lay cradled within Qui-Gon's arms only to be resuscitated and given life once more.

Obi-Wan, who could not accept the Will of the Force, not on Coruscant nor on Tatooine or Naboo.

Well, even if his mind's eye was determined to defy his mind's will, he would just have to replace that image with one of reality, only a few feet away. Qui-Gon rose to his feet – and decided the next place he rested would be his own bed – after both feasting his eyes on and making sure Anakin was in his.

He was, sprawled on his back, arms dangling over the sides of the bed and the skin lightly dimpled with chill.

"Ani," Qui-Gon shook his head in quiet amusement, drawing the covers up to his chest after first tucking the wayward limbs beneath. "Sleep well, little one."

He paused at the door and turned back; smiled a fond smile as he turned the lights off. The sight of a peacefully sleeping child cured all ills.

This night his dreams were pleasant ones.

* * *

Two steps forward, one back.

At least it wasn't one step forward, two back.

Mace had pushed too hard, he feared. He'd suggested Obi-Wan get together with his friends, have some fun, share a few laughs. Obi-Wan had hesitated; then shook his head no.

"Why not? It would be good for you."

Obi-Wan had only said softly, "I'm not good company right now."

No amount of gentle pressure, of reassurance that their company might be good for _him_, would change Obi-Wan's mind. As it was, Obi-Wan had risen with lips pressed together and headed to his bedroom, avoiding further argument by evading any discussion at all. It had been on the tip of Mace's tongue to call him back and press the issue, but in the end he did not.

Surely the young man needed his friends' support and companionship – but, Mace quickly realized, the latest rounds of medical work ups were no doubt causing this emotional instability by reopening only partially healed wounds. Obi-Wan abhorred showing weakness, barely even admitting such even to himself. No matter how well-meaning, how concealed, his friends' sympathy could only distress him further.

He dared not presume he knew what was best for Obi-Wan.

Sometimes a man just needed time and space to come to terms with changes in his life without the well meaning efforts of others interfering. Obi-Wan was an adult and entitled to make such decisions on his own.

At least for a time.

So Mace held his tongue and quietly informed Obi-Wan's friends that the young man was feeling unsettled and it might be best to give him some privacy; he would let them know when Obi-Wan was feeling up to visitors. The dismay on their faces seemed a bit extreme until he realized it wasn't his words, but who had delivered them.

_I'm not an ogre_ he grumbled to himself afterwards.

Intimidating – yes. He'd cultivated that reputation on purpose. He sighed. Maybe he'd cultivated it just a little too convincingly.


	28. Food for Thought

FYI: I'm many, many chapters ahead on another website so I'm posting updates fairly frequently just to "catch up." I've a few chapters in the "document manager" but it's a bit more difficult (though not hard) to update here.

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**Chapter 28**. **Food for Thought**

Rumors – a natural outgrowth spawned of unanswered questions and conjecture in any situation where any two or more beings attempted to find understanding where there was none to be found – began to spread its tendrils born of curiosity into hushed discussion throughout the Jedi Temple.

Just what had transformed a relatively routine mission into something with consequences yet to be fully understood?

Jinn and Kenobi - widely thought of as perhaps the best example of a Master-Padawan team currently in the Temple, had parted ways. Though he still wore the braid, the younger man was neither knight nor padawan. He had no title but one – Sith Killer.

Yet his deed on Naboo went all but unacknowledged, as if the deed was touched with something best left to silence or whispers. Tainted.

By the Sith.

A mythic enemy thought long destroyed; an enemy risen yet again – and slain. In the battle, three had fallen. One to death, one to a fatal wound that was not and one to – what?

It was only known that Jinn had renounced Kenobi though saved by him and though both had been injured, Jinn had all but recovered from physical wounds while Kenobi still suffered from mental wounds – a cloistered prisoner due to a broken mind or from more ominous things? Kenobi was not yet whole though no one was exactly sure from what he suffered other than the ignominy of being cast aside.

Speculation built slowly: had Kenobi been set aside for cause or not?

Far more likely, some thought, that the Force had sent the Jinn-proclaimed Chosen One to succeed Kenobi rather than replace him and that it was the Council who had stood adamant, unwilling to advance the one to accept the other; that it was they who had forced Master Jinn's hand.

Jinn and Skywalker triumphed; the Council and Kenobi gave way.

Was the boy that Jinn championed so important to the Force that Kenobi _had_ to be set aside?

As for the gulf between former master and former padawan, was it an irreparable gulf of guilt, unbridgeable even should forgiveness be asked and granted in return?

Just what had happened on Naboo?

* * *

"Hmm." Mace sat back, unaware of the scowl plastered across his face. It was how he greeted – unexpected information – just as Yoda's ears would prick up or turn down. Depa Billaba, his former padawan and fellow Council member had left him a short message, her weekly update.

It was not unexpected. It was not yet something to worry about. Depa would let him know when and if action needed to be taken.

Until then he was content, like Yoda, to let the Force handle things as they handled those affected.

Mace relied on his former padawan almost as much as he did on Yoda for a feel of the pulse of the Temple. Jedi spoke of and about things in their presence that they did not in his. He understood and accepted that: his role was not that of sage counsel, or understanding confidante but that of disciplinarian and leader. _To each their strengths._ Few spoke freely in his presence and those who did were those he counted friends, Jedi who could and did speak their minds and were not afraid of a good "discussion" or in the case of Qui-Gon Jinn, "argument."

Temple rumors were a natural outlet for those concerned about their colleagues. Curiosity and concern were allowed free reign.

The Council would only have to get involved if the rumors got out of control.

Mace dabbed at his lips and then patted his stomach in an outward show of satisfaction. It had been a delicious meal, and one quite unexpected. He had been in Council all day and returned hungry and tired to find that Obi-Wan was ready with this culinary surprise, a meal that had taken time to prepare. He had not been idle this past afternoon.

"Delicious, Obi-Wan. You're quite the cook."

A flash of bright eyes and a grin preceded words both mirthful and mournful. "Lessons, Master. Surely you haven't forgotten that seldt-cake."

Mace couldn't help shuddering at the reminder of something all but forgotten (it was better that way). A young padawan, over-eager and none-too-adept at actually reading and following a recipe (and who had later confessed he had thought he could "amend" the ingredients and make it uniquely his), had made dessert for his master and guest one night not many months, or perhaps just weeks, into his apprenticeship. For some reason, both Qui-Gon and he, but not young Obi-Wan, had been in and out of the fresher all that night. Mace had not been pleased. He had, in fact, been most displeased.

Throwing up was so undignified.

Not to mention that he had earlier been expounding "words of wisdom" to a young padawan, fueled no doubt by a slight overabundance of alcohol, about how a Jedi always had control over his reactions, no matter the provocation. He had been forced to eat – well, regurgitate – his words. In front of a fresh-faced padawan and his snickering master. Qui-Gon had not snickered long, felled by the same malady – two Jedi masters, laid low by one wide-eyed padawan and his Sithly concoction.

He had unleashed some unkind words about the boy as he'd raced Qui-Gon to the fresher. He had not even had to call priority as a guest and/or Council member as he'd been just a step or two closer to the fresher in the first place.

"I expected to be on my way to Agri-Corps within the week after that," Obi-Wan admitted candidly.

Agri-Corps! Why would Obi-Wan have thought – oh! It was an unwelcome reminder of just how out of line he had been. He hadn't meant it, of course, but he had murmured to Qui-Gon how perhaps they may well have been spared had not Obi-Wan been saved from that fate only to doom them to a night on their knees.

"You heard that? You weren't meant to. Obi-Wan, I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you said much worse – it was hard to hear exactly what you were saying with your hand clapped over your mouth. I was so afraid Master Qui-Gon was going to be in almost as much trouble as I was; I even wondered if I could throw myself on your mercy to spare my master." Obi-Wan dropped his eyes and his fingers twisted in his lap. After a pained sigh of remembrance, he continued bravely on, "I was sure that even if you didn't send me away, Master Qui-Gon was probably going to renounce my apprenticeship unless he really wanted to be nasty - punish me by sentencing me to at least a week of eating Master Yoda's stew."

At that, both men involuntarily shuddered.

Mace was appalled at the misery that clearly had so blanketed the boy at the time – and he had been oblivious, entirely oblivious to those careless words.

"You didn't think I belonged with the Jedi …I didn't ever want to face you again, but I knew had to," Obi-Wan gulped, "if I wanted a chance to prove myself."

Mace wasn't sure what to say to that - _I'm NOT that intimidating. Am I? - _but then, when Obi-Wan's eyes were raised to his, they were sparkling with humor. _Oh, I fell for that way too easily_.

"Of course I wasn't panicked all that long - I got sick a day or so later myself and cursed Master Qui-Gon with every breath I could spare."

"Qui-Gon? Why would you curse _Qui-Gon_?"

"Because it was _his_ fault for not supervising me," Obi-Wan answered with a wicked glint to his eye. "He always thought I should learn my own lessons rather than be taught them – and learn from my own mistakes. He amended that rule to exclude cooking after that."

"Oh, I see," Mace murmured, strangely amused at a padawan's logic.

"After that I knew you didn't mean what you had said just like I didn't mean Master Qui-Gon should really - well, you probably don't know want to know…." Obi-Wan blushed and shut up.

Actually, Mace did want to know: wanted to know if Obi-Wan's long ago wishes were half as or perhaps even more inventive than his own. He'd known and been friends with Qui-Gon most of his life; over the years each had come up with some rather – unique – ways of venting their differences.

He was about to ask when he saw a muscle work in Obi-Wan's throat and realized the boy was suddenly fighting off an onslaught of grief, woken by the memory. "Hey, now," he said as gently as he could, laying a hand on the Jedi's shoulder and squeezing it. To his relief, Obi-Wan swallowed hard and nodded.

"Sentimental me," he murmured.

"You feel sentimental over being sick?" Mace put all the astonishment in his voice he could and earned a slight smile in return. He had not expected that caring for Obi-Wan, watching him deal with his successes and setbacks would have much of an impact on his own life. He had stepped forward and taken on the responsibility as much out of duty as personal desire: he had been present shortly after the breach of the master-padawan relationship and forced almost by circumstances into acting.

More than that, though, he owed a duty to both Qui-Gon as his friend and Obi-Wan as his friend's padawan, a duty both personal and professional; Mace was already charged with watching over Obi-Wan should ever Qui-Gon be incapacitated.

Yet impersonal duty had become personal satisfaction, his day in small part measured by Obi-Wan's day. From relishing his detachment from others he had come to relishing the connection to another.

It had been a long time since someone had shared Mace's quarters and shared his thoughts, fears and joys with the senior Jedi. He was honored to be the recipient of the young man's honesty and trust when he confided his uncertainties and doubt. Obi-Wan was not his padawan, nor in most respects, a Jedi in need of guidance. He was a padawan ready to be a knight, a man not boy, yet one set back in that journey by injury.

He had no reason to share himself as freely as he did with Mace, for that kind of trust was usually earned, not freely given. Yet, for some reason, Obi-Wan was as open with Mace as a man of his quiet and more reserved personality could be with anyone – as he had been with Qui-Gon, once upon a time.

Was this a consequence of his damaged Force connection? Without the Force to sustain and support him when he was in such dire need, had he latched onto someone – to Mace – as a substitute?

Was this a reminder, a lesson for Mace - for all the Jedi? Were the Jedi, each and every one of them, more attuned and more connected to that life energy than to each other and others outside the Order? It was an uncomfortable question, in many ways, hitting perhaps too close to the truth for Mace's comfort.

None on the Council currently had padawans; few went on missions with other Jedi. Other than Yoda and Yaddle, few spent much time in close company with the larger community of Jedi.

Was it possible that the Council was becoming too removed from those it guided, too caught up in decision making that they sometimes forgot those charged with carrying out those decisions and the impact on those on whom their decisions fell? The Force may have taken advantage of this difficult time for Obi-Wan to impart this lesson. It wasn't a deliberate decision to be insular, but perhaps the Council should make a deliberate choice to mingle more, listen more, and observe more.

This time of healing for one was perhaps meant to be a time of learning for others, to be looked upon as a gift rather than an obligation. Mace was the privileged one in this instance and while this time was not one Mace would have wished for he thanked the Force for the opportunity to learn and grow from the experience and in small way contribute to the well being of a fellow Jedi.

There was little doubt, though; the bulk of the work fell upon frail shoulders – and a strong will.

If a full recovery was possible, Obi-Wan would achieve it, on that Mace had no doubt. Sheer determination and dedication would see to that, just as those same attributes had created a promising knight-to-be from a rather ordinary youngling made of equal parts of fiery temper and a fierce devotion to helping others.

And now – Obi-Wan was finding new parts along with the old, changed parts along with the familiar, and discovering discarded parts by their absence.

It was fascinating to observe how he painstakingly sought to make himself whole once more.

Reassembling himself was like working a puzzle: some pieces fit and some didn't. Some seemed to match, but the join was awkward and soon proven false; those pieces needed to be pried apart. Like a puzzle, the final product would only come with steps backwards as well as forwards, so it was that there still were times Obi-Wan was withdrawn and quiet, barely interacting with anyone while there many other times he seemed nearly his normal, exuberant self.

All of which was "perfectly normal," Mace was given to understand when he and Yoda spoke to the healers, just as it was not considered "not at all unusual" that Obi-Wan had reacted so badly after coming face to face with his former master and the padawan that had replaced him at his side.

Before Mace could quietly explode at the presumption that Obi-Wan's reaction had been purely internal to what had clearly been external provocation, the healers pointed out that regardless of implications or motivations, the actual spoken words themselves were not evidence they were meant to give offense.

"_Anakin does not need to be exposed to – well – my duty is protect him_."

As much as Mace hated to admit it, the healers were correct. Those _had _been the very words that they had finally dragged from the young man.

"Remember, acknowledging his pain by no means lessens that pain," had been the healer's final words.

Mace was no happier, but his flash of anger had subsided. Still, he did all that he could; he asked Yaddle to pass on the Council's "recommendation" that for the sake of all, Qui-Gon and Anakin attempt to avoid any interaction with Obi-Wan.

"Such, Qui-Gon said, 'is my intention'," Yaddle reported back in the next Council session. "His focus remains firmly attached on his padawan, affection I sense there and a determination to do what's best for the boy. Despite the charges he leveled at Obi-Wan before the Council I sense no malice in his intentions – he is quite genuine in his wish to avoid any confrontations and quite sincere in his belief that Obi-Wan may be tainted by his actions on Naboo and that we, the Council, are unwilling to give objective consideration to this possibility."

"We have addressed this issue before," Mace growled.

"But not to Qui-Gon's satisfaction, Mace – or to the Force's, he believes. Sensed I did his concern that a taint, should one exist, may have been passed to him through Obi-Wan. A perfect opportunity to express concern about his padawan it was, and, er, inflame his protective instincts. Even as I left, he was contacting the healers to set up a full health review." Yaddle smirked.

"Well done, Yaddle," Mace said admiringly. That was good news indeed, good enough to crack a smile over.

"The truth we want, Mace; knowledge not validation of our perspective. Too muddied the Force has been, unable to see clearly none of us have."

The reminder sunk like a greased vibroblade into flesh. Questions and answers both were obscured in wispy fog, blocking the Force from full illumination of the landscape of behavior and motivation. How else had the Sith reemerged without notice?

Mace rubbed his eyes. He hated unanswered questions.

Was it mere happenstance that the Sith slunk out of the shadows at the same time the shadows descended upon perhaps the best master-padawan team in the Order, effectively destroying the team's service to the light?

Or had the two Jedi merely been hapless victims, pawns of fate chosen by only circumstance and timing?

Had the Force truly been speaking to Qui-Gon, urging his championing of young Skywalker, its urgency somehow twisted into chaos and pain as the "Chosen One's" champion did all within his power to assume his role of guardian and guide, even to casting away the one he already mentored at the Force's behest?

Thinking about all this was giving Mace a headache; Yoda's next words didn't help.

"Perhaps too quick we have been to dismiss Master Jinn's – concerns," Yoda put in quietly. Mace stiffened; surely he held no doubt regarding Obi-Wan. Before he could protest, he saw the warning in the wise old eyes.

Swallowing his questions, he relaxed into his seat only to tense as the discussion continued. Surely some of the Council was not – he frowned and stared at his fingers, heeding Yoda's earlier warning. His head came up sharply and he frowned when the last words registered: "There is a shadow within the Temple and we've all felt it, whether we're aware of it or not."

It was – _kind_ – of Master Tinn to use "we" in that sentence, Mace thought, his eyes slowly circling the room. At least none of his colleagues seemed the least bit uncomfortable, indicating at least the concern was not yet alarm; no eyes shifted away from his and none held his too long.

He slowly nodded; his fingers steepled before him and all too aware that beside him, Yoda sat hunched and quiet, eyes shuttered.

He let out a slow breath.

It was true. The shadow might not be of darkness, but from an abundance of light. It might be a stain of tension and unease bleeding into the Force, fallout from Naboo and the encounter with the Sith.

But it was a shadow, seen in the corner of the eye or an itch in one's cognizance. It had to be faced – and given a name. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach warned him what he would be a fool to ignore.

Someone would likely want to give it the name "Kenobi."

* * *

"Something's troubling you, Master."

"Nothing for you to worry about, Obi-Wan," Mace replied matter-of-factly, sitting down with a cup of steaming tea shortly after the end of the Council session. The young man was too well trained to dispute that, though the elder Jedi sensed disquiet underneath the calm façade. He was quickly proved wrong, for Obi-Wan did just that – speaking up as a knight to a master, rather than keeping silent as a padawan to a master, his words even and without inflection.

"And if I'm at the heart of it, shouldn't I have a chance to defend myself?"

Mace put down his datapad and narrowed his eyes. "Why should you need to defend yourself against something that has very little – if anything - to do with you?"

"So it's true; I'm involved in some way."

"Peripherally." The reassurance only seemed to agitate Obi-Wan; out of habit he unconsciously reached for the Force. It reached back eagerly, but Obi-Wan did not seem to notice, drawing back before the connection could be made.

"Are you thinking of sending me away?" Obi-Wan was on his feet now, his voice rising.

"Obi-Wan; sit. Now." Mace caught the slim shoulders and forcibly sat him down. "Where'd you get an idea like that? No one is discussing sending you away – why should we?" His fingers tightened. "Why would we?"

"Why are you, then?" Obi-Wan was not in the least appeased; his hands were tightly clasped on his thighs, his knuckles white.

"Obi-Wan – believe me. Please. No one is discussing any such thing!" And they weren't, as Mace well knew. His sincerity finally got through to the young man, for he let out a soft gasp and bent over, shaking fingers cradling his face. What had put such an idea in his head in the first place? Shaking his head in bewilderment, Mace resorted to the tried and true, a cup of hot coca and a warm throw around the shoulders.

And waited.

He had waited out the numb misery and the tears and watched as healing reduced those incidents to near-memories. He was now seeing firsthand the flashes of anger he had earlier been warned about that had been all but absent before now. Much to Mace's chagrin, he realized, he had fallen into the very trap the healers had warned him against, of mistaking Obi-Wan's very real progress as success far too early in the process.

The taut tension gradually eased. Before shame and guilt at his emotions could creep in to replace the released fear and anger, Mace quietly spoke.

"What put that idea in your head – and for Force's sake why didn't you ask me if it was true before deciding it was?" He had decided to adopt the gently stern but patient Master-attitude Qui-Gon had so often used successfully on his padawan and hoped he would learn firsthand now how well it covered the I'm-worried-but-I-will-not-reveal-it attitude that lay behind it.

"_Then I wait a few seconds for the sigh that precedes his words," Qui-Gon had said, a little chuckle in his voice_.

A sigh preceded his slow wipe of a hand through the brush of his hair. "I heard them. 'Obi-Wan is crazy and what kind of Jedi can't touch the Force?' Am I? Perhaps I should be sent away so I don't hurt anyone. I don't want to hurt anyone. I was coming back from the healers." Though the voice was dull, the words were quite clearly enunciated.

"First of all, you are not crazy, you are damaged and second, as you ought to well know, Senior Padawan Kenobi, an injured Jedi is never 'sent away' for being injured. The mental damage you've suffered does not make you crazy; it makes you forget things and get a bit emotional at times, hardly anything that would cause harm to anything but your self-esteem." Mace waited a long moment until the color returned to Obi-Wan's face and he nodded, a bit sheepishly.

"Look at me, Obi-Wan." Mace tipped up the chin until their eyes met. "This – conversation – is just further proof that you are not yourself yet, young man. No one faults you for that. You should not let idle chatter affect you so."

"I'm sorry, Master Windu." Hands scrubbed uncertainly over weary eyes.

"Apology accepted if not needed. Obi-Wan, there are gaps in your mind, we both know that. Should there be a next time, Force forbid, I want you to ask me, or Yoda, or someone before you accept any kind of such talk as truthful. I promise you that any talk of your future will involve you when and if such becomes necessary; let me assure you, as well, that this is your home and no one is thinking you should leave it. No one."

"I don't think Master Jinn wants me here." Stiffly, Obi-Wan got up and wandered over to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

_You're right; he doesn't._ Mace closed his eyes and carefully released his breath. "He doesn't want you and Anakin to be in contact," he said instead. "And we agree, Yoda and I. There's no point in adding to your pain."

Obi-Wan merely placed his fingers on the window and leaned his head against the cool transparisteel.

If it were possible, Mace thought, he knew what his heart would be doing right now.

Aching.


	29. Tipping the Fulcrum

**Chapter 29**. **Tipping the Fulcrum**

"I'll 'crazy' them," Mace muttered to himself as he punched his pillow yet again as he tried to get comfortable that night; now free to fume on Obi-Wan's behalf.

It was only natural to talk, to wonder and speculate, but to gossip in such a hurtful manner was not what one expected of the Jedi. Depa hadn't mentioned anything about this kind of talk. Younglings? Surely that must be it – youngsters who didn't guard their tongues, were careless in their speech, and unheeding of who might overhear their words.

Yoda – he'd speak to Yoda. The old troll would soon put things to right.

_Crazy!_ Mace snorted. Anyone who thought that Obi-Wan Kenobi was crazy was clearly out of his/her or its own mind.

Really! Kenobi?

Such was impossible. Younglings, it had to be younglings. With a grunt, Mace turned over and fell into a peaceful sleep

"Handled our Obi-Wan well you did," Yoda remarked when next the two senior Jedi met. "And perhaps idle words a spur to action this is."

Out of habit, Mace moved his legs well away from Yoda. With gimer stick in hand and talk of a "spur to action" he was not taking any chances. One rap of that stick when young, though gentle enough, stuck with the vast majority of Jedi throughout the rest of his, her or its lifetime. _Speak softly and carry a big stick_ had been Yoda's motto for years; a gratifying successful one. In his more irreverent moments, Mace sometimes thought _he_ could also be considered "the big stick" there at Yoda's side, but he had to reluctantly accept that he and his infamous scowl were no more and no less a deterrent to mischief-making than the gimer stick itself.

"Idle hands lead to idle minds which lead to idle chatter." Yoda scratched his chin with a long finger. "Deal with that I will. As for our youngling, too idle is he as well. Stimulation, yes, yes, not good is it for Obi-Wan to sit and brood – build back his confidence we must. Well you have done, Mace – right I was when I said more than capable you were even if I were the only one to truly believe it at the time."

Yoda cackled; Mace glared, only the glare didn't work on Yoda. Sadly, he realized, it probably never would.

"Impervious I am." With a last mischievous chuckle, Yoda added as he clambered to his feet, "Overuse that face you must not or its effectiveness it will lose." He tipped his head on one side and regarded Mace for a long minute. "Or perhaps not."

Once they'd sorted out insults and veiled compliments, the two Jedi settled into a discussion of "what comes next". In fact, it was the perfect time to discuss his conversation with Garen Muln, Obi-Wan's best friend, earlier that same day as Mace was on his way to Yoda's rooms. Mace crossed his legs and leant back, adding one more piece to the puzzle that was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

"I found out from Garen this morning that Obi-Wan has asked his friends not to try to visit him 'for a while yet.' Garen was rather distressed."

The distress, he was certain, had nothing to do with addressing Council Member Master Mace Windu. It wasn't like padawans and knights avoided speaking to him – they just tended to gulp and shift from foot to foot until assured no Council summons was forthcoming. Garen had, in fact, approached him with only the barest hint of trepidation on his young face.

"Why would Obi-Wan avoid his friends at a time like this? They can be of more comfort to him than I."

"Mmm." Yoda pondered the words as one claw scratched his chin. "More ashamed of his anger than his tears, he is no doubt; does not wish to worry his friends or try to explain to them what he cannot to himself. Easier it is that way – allow this we should but for a short time only. Habit, this must not become."

"So you don't think it's related to what he overheard?"

"Related, yes; the cause, no. Had you pressed Obi-Wan, I'm sure he would have realized that whomever he heard, only a youngling would be so indelicate and unguarded with his or her tongue. Nowhere has he been but the healers and in between."

Of course. Well, at least Yoda would sort it all out and in so doing, teach a lesson as well on the danger of reckless speech. One impetuous word, one careless imprecation, even one incautious inflection could sour a protracted negotiation for a Jedi.

"Worry do not, Mace. Time it will take, but time the Force has."

Just in time, Mace restrained from rolling his eyes. The presence of that damn stick assured that.

"First there were tears and numb silences; that was difficult enough to deal with. Now such seems easy; this anger and frustration cannot be assuaged with a simple, "Release into the Force." Mace glanced at Yoda, who nodded in sympathy. Both knew such emotions were not for Jedi. Obi-Wan knew it himself, thus adding shame and guilt to the already weighty pile of emotions he carried on over-burdened shoulders when anger drained away.

Mace could no more indulge those emotions than discipline the young man for them. All he could do was wait them out, in silence. Wait – for the next stage, and wonder what shape that would take.

For to hope – that the Force would act sooner rather than later to heal the wounds - was fruitless; it followed no man's timetable, only its own.

Expecting and receiving no greeting upon his return to his rooms - still half-startled just to find another within his rooms – Mace paused on the threshold and observed the peaceful scene before him. The subject of his observations had not heard the soft whisper of the door's opening; had not lifted the face seen half in profile to flash either a smile or frown. Obi-Wan was all but oblivious to the Jedi master's presence.

The young man was studying a datapad, chin resting on one hand as the other slowly twisted and twirled his long padawan braid. The Force was calm around him, tinged with – yes, a bit of glee – as well as a subdued sense of regret. At the moment he looked anything other than a brooding padawan, shut away against the painful reality of his circumstances.

Garen's earlier words as much as his somber expression flitted through Mace's mind.

Straightening from his slouch against the jamb, Mace cleared his throat. "Anything exciting?"

Obi-Wan's head lifted and he quirked a smile of greeting. "Mission reports…."

"Ah, looking for something?" 

Obi-Wan smiled a bit sheepishly. "Jogging my memory…."

Or perhaps searching for some part of himself? _Oh, Obi-Wan, you won't find whatever you're searching for in dry mission reports. _

"Find anything?"

"Just more questions, Master Windu." Obi-Wan shrugged, a bit apologetically. "I'm finding a lot of memories, some good memories and reliving some…," suddenly that mischievous grin appeared, "downright exciting and death-defying feats of Jedi valor."

Raising an eyebrow, Mace came and looked over Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Ah, yes, the Tanaris mission – acting upon one of your 'bad feelings' you spectacularly saved not just the minister's life, but your master's. After his initial desire to throttle you for disobeying him, Qui-Gon was later forced to concede you had acted on an 'exceedingly good instinct' and not only salvaged the mission, but extricated Qui-Gon from what might have been a disastrous decision."

Obi-Wan's ears turned pink. "In a way I was following Master Qui-Gon's instructions. Having been chided for not being attentive to my surroundings not long before, I had been seeking to find my proper balance in the Force when its warning jolted through me. Master had his hands full with the minister and her counselors at the time and despite being told not to interfere no matter what; I could hardly stand by when the Force wished me to act." 

"Your focus was where it belonged, you listened to the Force and you acted on its promptings. Qui-Gon was quite proud of you and I must admit that the Council was quite pleased with your initiative as well. Had we not been, Qui-Gon, I believe, would still be in that chamber arguing your merits."

Obi-Wan openly stared.

Mace clapped him on the shoulder. "Come now, Obi-Wan, you know the Council rarely shows much more than approval or disapproval during session, especially in the presence of a padawan. See that note, there," he tapped a button and pointed. "That is as effusive as the Council ever is, that little notation there was carried forward into your personal records – approval of a job well done. In fact, that earned you that blue bead for your braid."

"I must have a few notations less savory as well," Obi-Wan deadpanned.

"You're a human, not a droid. Of course you have. I delivered a few of those reprimands myself as I recall. We all have them, but you'll have to sit on the Council before you'll ever get a chance to see mine." He wasn't much for teasing, Force knew, but then, the truth was not teasing. His age mates knew enough not to bandy around Initiate Mace Windu's peccadilloes and demerits. He pursed his lips; then decided magnanimously to share a closely guarded secret. It wasn't his secret, after all.

"Yoda's list is so long I should perhaps start you on those so you can finish before your first padawan makes knighthood. With such a long lifespan, his list of infractions vastly outnumbers any other Jedi's in the Council's archives."

A full-fledged smile lit up the room.

"So do you want to tell me why you're avoiding your friends?"

The smile dimmed and disappeared. "I'm not – I just don't feel up to pretending that I'm okay."

"They don't expect you to pretend. They don't expect anything. They just want to see you."

"Not like this, dealing with inappropriate emotions that take me by surprise, that I have trouble controlling." Obi-Wan shaded an eye with a suddenly trembling hand. "I can't be strong for them."

"Let them be strong for you," Mace countered, but Obi-Wan just shook his head. One of Qui-Gon's least endearing traits: stubbornness. _Why_ had this been the master's legacy to his former padawan?

"Aren't I supposed to go through several emotional stages of ups and downs? Don't fight them, work through them? Well, I've gone through the shock and tears and now I'm fighting through the anger and hurt but I'm still fighting. My friends will only weaken me right now."

In a way, Mace realized, the boy was right. He would spare his friends worry on his behalf, burying his pain behind an illusion of self-sufficiency that would fool no one but stifle discussion in its tracks. He supposed he should feel privileged that he was one of the very few allowed to actually witness this very personal and ongoing struggle.

But, oh, the progress that had been made to date. Where there had been confusion and doubt there was now strength and determination, lurking behind his eyes and in the tone of his voice.

"A few days, Master Windu…I know I can't stay cocooned here forever. But I need to focus on myself and my friends will just be a distraction right now. 

How could he say no after that?

Had he done the right thing in acquiescing to Obi-Wan's wishes?

The question continued to vex Mace over the next few days.

This time of emotional turbulence had finally yielded to emotional equilibrium for Obi-Wan, though as yet it had proven insufficient to break through the inertia that kept the young man tied to Mace's rooms.

That state of affairs was about to come to an end, Yoda suddenly announced.

It was not a decision made lightly or without consultation – and the consensus was clear amongst those who looked after Obi-Wan's welfare: they were all determined that he should not stay in self-isolation. This seeming unwillingness to risk tipping the delicate balance he had found had been understandable when Obi-Wan's moods had been in such a state of flux – something any Jedi would find all too disconcerting, even without the handicap of an injury. Isolation could turn into a spiraling cycle of despair and depression; those who cared hoped to forestall or minimize such from happening.

So it was that Obi-Wan became the unwitting focal point of a plot, of well-meaning schemes to reintegrate him into Temple life.

Had he known of them, the young Jedi would have been both gratified and chagrined.

Had he been asked, he might have demurred or sought to delay their plans, so he was not given that chance.

_Operation Obi-Wan_ was set in motion.

Known by not the same title, _Operation Obi-Wan_ was nonetheless well underway elsewhere in the galaxy.

Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, a somewhat unremarkable Jedi in the shadow of his more illustrious master - until Naboo - had managed to become the center in the eye of a brewing hurricane of darkness. The storm clouds shaded the horizon without yet shuttering the light; storm warnings pulsed but were not triggered.

On two different worlds, two different men oversaw their plans. Their goals were different, but overlapping.

As yet, the plans had not clashed. In the end, one would lose – and yet gain something immeasurable. One would win – and find victory a mockery.

On yet a third world, a woman who would eventually find herself a supporting player in a drama that spanned the galaxy rested her weary head upon her arms. Hers was a lonely existence now, her only joys in life absent.

One child had gone long ago, given by her hands; another, more recent, gone as well.

Healer Jorak felt like a spider in the center of an unfamiliar web, disentangling and tracing fine lines made more of vibrations than substance. The Force signature he knew as Obi-Wan's, once as pure as a sea reflecting a pure blue sky, had become a murky blue overshot by a glint of gold as if light struggled fathoms deep to illuminate what lay in the shadowed ocean depths.

Qui-Gon's sapphire blue was chiseled with gray, a crystalline facet of an ageless rock, unassuming unless the light angled just so to reveal sparkling flares and deep crevices, unchangeable to the sight even as slowly demolished by the ravages of erosion.

Young Skywalker was a flare of yellow brushed with red, a young and fiery landscape in its infancy, still malleable and in the midst of transformation.

Be'a'nhyra, E'orfa and Vulchen: Water, Soil and Fire – and something else, something that tickled at the back of Jorak's mind, a whisper of familiarity that as yet had no name, slippery and elusive like a virus that constantly mutated.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he tapped into the Archives yet again.

Over the next few days Operation Obi-Wan continued to evolve: who to involve, what precautions to take, how much to do and how often. All that they did was only after consultation: with the Initiate Masters and with the Council, with healers and with Obi-Wan's friends. None wanted to push Obi-Wan into situations he was not ready to handle, all knew he was too fragile as yet. There would be no interactions with his former master and the master's new padawan or with those so young yet that they were incapable of discretion.

Momentum would build with each step and each success.

It was finally deemed time, sparked by a burst of energy that had Obi-Wan straightening up Mace's quarters, to that Jedi's amusement and surprise.

"Do you hire out – I never get this place quite this clean," Mace complimented him. "Thank you; you didn't need to do this."

Obi-Wan swiped a hand across his sweaty face and shook his head. "I like things clean and tidy, and I, well, it was the least I could do after all you've done for me, Master Windu. You've picked up after me –" his lips quirked in a wry grin, "whenever I've started to fall apart. I honestly don't know what I would have done without you these last few weeks."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi would have managed," Mace returned, pleased that the young man's quirky sense of humor was so often now reasserting itself. He peered at Obi-Wan's weary eyes, noticed the sheen of sweat on his face – hesitated – and implemented Step One. "You need to move about more, son. If even light cleaning works up such a sweat, you need to get back into shape. You need to get out and about – even just go stick your feet in the lake for a change of scenery."

"I know…but – I can't." Obi-Wan sighed, twisting the rag in his hands. "Not yet."

"Won't," Mace said pointedly.

The expected protest died on his lips. Obi-Wan didn't have an answer to that, as with so much else.

"I promise you won't run into Qui-Gon or Anakin."

Brown eyes held his blue-gray: a promise that he had nothing to fear, if he only dared not to fear. In that fierce gaze, in those words spoken so gently, was strength freely offered; strength he could draw on.

Obi-Wan straightened his shoulders and gave Mace a quiet, "Yes, Master," along with a nod and soft sigh, followed by the unexpected: "I trust your judgment."

"Well, that's ah - good, then." He squeezed the young man's shoulder, for some reason inordinately pleased.

Trust was a rare commodity amongst some – and respect for the Jedi unknown.

The Jedi were far from universally liked, and not just amongst the miscreants and criminals. Few, however, hated them. Of those who did, far fewer had the means to indulge their hatred. Fewer yet knew how to bring them down.

One man did. He had been planning just that for a long time. He would use Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan, Kenobi, to destroy Jinn, destroying Kenobi in the process as well. Then he would destroy the Order as well, this Order that would hold two such vipers close to its bosom, these thieves of human dignity who so casually plundered another being's heart while piously preaching compassion and caring. Complicit all were: Jinn, Kenobi and the Order.

Being neither rash nor impatient, he bid his time.

Everything had been set in place, the traps armed, to be nudged into play whenever events properly aligned – and they had when unexpected circumstances conveniently interfered, courtesy of Chancellor Valorum, bids for power, and a disabled Naboo ship.

The subtle beauty of his plan became of necessity sublimated to expediency - the jaws snapped closed; the bait firmly ensconced within the teeth of the prey – only the prey was the hunted and the bait the hunter's weapon.

It had been a satisfying success despite the reality that almost nothing – _nothing_ – had gone as he had foreseen while leading to exactly what he had hoped to accomplish.

It could have – might well have - gone disastrously wrong based on what he later learned. The Jedi should have died, there at the hand of the then as yet unknown third player in the drama. Jinn nearly did.

Only something unexpected had intervened. Kenobi. The Force. Or perhaps, both.

Kenobi: the tool, the pawn – the unexpected player. The surge of power channeled through him had exploded like a nebula through every Force-sensitive being within parsecs – he being one of them. Tuning forks, all of them, each a quiver with the song of the Force…Kenobi the one to give it voice, the melody built on notes of hope, affection, and life.

And Jinn – lived.

And the greatest cosmic joke of all time furthered his plans even as it hastened and changed it, sending a stab of malicious glee through his anger and hate. Jinn and Kenobi, those whom he had meant to destroy instead lived, and now the "Chosen One" was insinuated within the very Order that he despised, in the very care of the man he hated. The Jedi could not afford to leave the poor and oh so powerful child, the "Chosen One" alone in a world that would fight for his power and allegiance.

Alone?

Oh, how he laughed at that. Only he knew to what extent each was bound to the other, and so he allowed what he had never planned. Let the Order shelter, feed and further train its Savior, the savior that would turn to bite the hand that fed it and in so doing, become its destroyer.

Yet, strange to contemplate even now was that the carefully cultivated and oh-so-useful _connection_ had come close to destroying them all.

With his web ensnaring them all, he the spider at the center and so attuned to each strand, each vibration of power, even he had been caught up in the sweeping crescendo of raw and elemental power that bound both predator and prey, weaving the intricate strands ever tighter. In sheer revulsion at the pure – so disgustingly pure _light_ –he had instinctively unleashed the demons of hell into the vulnerable and unguarded minds – and accelerated that estrangement he meant to drive between master and padawan.

And the light retreated into shadows, harmony fractured into discordant screeches – and minds whimpered and were torn asunder, fears and doubts amplified and multiplied by the destructive dark energies.

He had fed on it, gorged and drank on the despair and grief – of Jinn, repudiating his savior and of Kenobi, euphoria fading into anguish - even as he shielded young Skywalker from awareness of all but his own triumphant exultation.

And he exalted in his own triumph even as troubling questions arose.

How to explain Kenobi and the one he had slain?

_He_ had set the game pieces upon the board; Jinn, the dupe, Kenobi, the potential sacrifice, his fate of little concern. The longer the Jedi lived, the more torment _he_ could inflict, but ultimately the padawan's death on Naboo had been neither desirable nor undesirable, as long as it advanced the game. Not to him – but to another it was anathema.

Kenobi lived – and the other was fury incarnate in the Force, a dark stain that sought the young Jedi's very obliteration.

He seemed a pleasant enough young man aside from the fact he was Jinn's apprentice, but likable or not, people were mere tools to be used and discarded as needed. Lives had little inherent value in themselves. Even the Jedi prattled the nonsense of there being no death, only the Force. As an Order they preached and as an Order they believed that a Jedi lived and a Jedi died for the Force.

This one would die just a bit sooner than anyone expected, well before the rest.

It was only a pity that when his life ended, so would one means of tormenting Jinn. Kenobi's life, Kenobi's death – meaningless in so many ways – yet fraught with mysteries. He'd rather the boy live for yet a while longer, a brand to scorch Jinn's soul, a vibroblade to score his heart, a tool to achieve his ends. Someone else was determined to terminate his life post-haste – and why - because he was seen as a threat, even if now neutralized, damaged and shorn of the Force?

Would he return to the Force in death as a Jedi, or a Force-blind boy – ah, well, such was not important.

But he could not help but wonder: why was Kenobi such a threat? And to whom?


	30. Soliloquy on Evil

**Chapter 30**. **Soliloquy on Evil**

Evil comes in many shapes and many flavors. It may be a pall across the senses, or the unseen blade that strikes from shadows. It may hide behind the smile of a friend or the leer of the devil.

But evil incarnate takes all these forms and more. It is voracious and infinite, gorging on despair and pain and yet never filling its belly with its feast – it hungers while it takes pleasure in suffering, never satiated and never satisfied.

It is Sith, and it prowls the dark and stalks the unwary. It now stalks – its future. It stalks the Chosen One.

He had been so disillusioned. Once. Now he was – uncertain. Dooku did not like uncertainty.

He had not told Qui-Gon, but he had been on the verge of resignation, on the verge of accepting his hereditary title. Only his wish not to burn any bridges until such might be required had held him silent.

Had his padawan died there, on Naboo, his disillusionment would have been complete. Had Kenobi died there, he might have hesitated.

Both had survived. Everything had changed. His decision, as well?

The Republic was in serious trouble, the Senate mired in committees and resolutions. Though technically the overseer of the Jedi Order – which Dooku vehemently opposed, considering the Senate in question – it had taken the former Chancellor to bypass procedures and send two Jedi to negotiate a settlement between the Naboo and Trade Federation: Jinn and Kenobi.

At least someone had acted. And Valorum had lost his position for doing so. Now his friend Palpatine was chancellor. Could he accomplish what Valorum could not?

Dooku was beginning to suspect change would not be so easy.

Even for Tatooine it was hot.

The heat was stifling, the air unmoving even here within the shadowed walls of Watto's shop. Schmi Skywalker brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead before again leaning over Watto's scattered receipts, trying to make sense out of the accounting. She still repaired small items at home, but Watto now also had her tending the counter in his shop during his busiest hours.

Normally, that is, because business had been slow since word had gotten around. The kid who could repair anything was not to be found at Watto's shop.

Anakin – her pride and joy. Anakin - her sweet and generous son; a boy with flashes of temper and independence that slavery could not tame. Anakin - such an independent spirit despite the degrading life he had born into. In time slavery would beat him down, turn temper into rebelliousness. By adulthood he would be beaten into submission; a resentful and seething slave did not last long. Shmi would not always be there to sooth the hurt or provide the love, the balm to his restless soul: someday one or the other would be sold or lost in a bet.

She knew it and the Jedi had known it.

Anakin refused the knowledge, finding comfort in pronouncements of someday, promises that he would free them both, to roam the stars. Dreams of power – the power to right wrongs and the power to overcome circumstances – had been peppering his speech more and more often, accompanying shows of truculent temper.

Dreams of power were leading him down a dangerous road for a slave and she would be eternally grateful to the Jedi for freeing Anakin and giving him a better life, a life where his gifts could be encouraged to grow in the right direction – the direction of his giving nature.

The Jedi… he had treated her as a queen in her castle, understood her mother's fears and touched her heart with kindness. His touch had been tender; his presence solace from a storm she hadn't even known was upon her.

Shmi did not regret for one minute that he had taken her son away. Anakin had been meant for greater things than a life on Tatooine, a life as a slave.

Sighing, she bent again to her task, only to straighten as the soft chime signaled a customer.

Even before she could open her mouth in greeting, Watto flew past her, all unctuous courtesy and fawning attention. The frenzied beat of his wings created a welcome draft.

She hoped this customer would buy something. Too many did not, too many that left Watto ranting and raving about the "Jedi thief" who "stole his boy and his business." _Not yours, Watto, not any longer. Not even mine._ Shmi offered thanks to that same Jedi each day for saving Anakin from this life.

Letting Anakin leave had been the truest test of her heart yet. She had given her heart away once to a young man once who had abused it, though it had taken her years to see it.

A young girl easily wooed with sweet words and gentle kisses, she had willingly lain in his arms, giving herself to his touches and his promises. It had been all she had dreamed it would be, sweet and tender, and oh, so very loving as two became one in that most ancient of dances. When they had at last parted, his lips had curved in a smile; hers as well, for she was sure that she had met the man of her dreams.

And then she had slept, safe and warm, still tucked within the comfort of his arms.

When she woke, the spot where he had laid was cold and empty. He had obligations, he had later explained, duties to attend to. He could not stay the night, but he _could_ steal precious hours with the girl who had stolen his heart. Someday, he promised, someday they would be together. Innocent in the ways of deceit, secure in his love, she had welcomed him back that next night and more.

Then he had vanished from her life.

Amber light created shadows that danced across paneled walls, but only within the periphery of eyesight, had either of the two men cared to look. Comfortably ensconced within fine synth-leather seats, an expensive brandy at each elbow, their focus was entirely on each other. A slight irritation sharpened the voice of one.

"But my dear Count –"

"That is not decided yet." Dooku – obviously playing the role of Jedi Master Dooku - informed his guest.

That was an unexpected jolt – Dooku had already confided in him his all-but-certain decision to leave the Jedi Order. Had Naboo somehow lessened his resolve? Was it because Jinn lived? Losing his former padawan, close relationship or not, would have left him with no strong ties to an Order he had confessed was archaic and out of touch.

Dooku was no delusional fool as his guest knew; he was very well aware that his deepest loyalty always remained with his own best interest, allied "with the Force" of course. Allied, for the Force was not and would never be his conscience, only a guide to suggest a course which he felt free to follow – or not.

He usually did, finding few areas of true conflict, such was his Jedi training. The conflict, if any, arose with his fellow "servants of the Force."

"Servants of the political lackeys" in his eyes and in truth.

The two men had discussed over the last few years the inadequacies of the current government. It had grown stale and complacent, far more concerned with maintaining the status quo than with actual governing.

Corruption spread, inaction ruled. Competency was hindered, incompetency rewarded.

It was one reason the prior government had fallen – the governed had lost faith in their representatives.

And no one was willing to fight it. Except he – and this man before him.

"A man of principle is needed; you are needed, my friend." The Chancellor leaned forward, eyes earnest. "There are others of principle within your Order, but few outside. The Republic needs such men of principle. The Senate is hopeless; they cannot even agree to disagree. Those who so recently plundered my planet walk as free men and are likely to do so until old age provides the justice we mere men cannot."

A thin smile touched the Jedi's lips. "The Force is often the sole source of justice in many cases. So it has always been."

"Ah, yes, this 'Force' of yours." Palpatine leaned back and eyed the silvering, still very distinguished gentleman before him. Aristocratic, authoritarian, disciplined. Not led by the need for power alone, or even mere possessions. No, what led this man was a need for order, for in his eyes, order curbed aggression and greed. "Even your Order is relying less and less on your Force and listening more and more to the Senate."

Sad regret colored the touché flourish of a brandy snifter; the verbal missile had struck home although one would not know it by the words that followed.

"I fail to see how leaving the Order rectifies this issue."

"And I fail to see how remaining rectifies it either." Quiet frustration infused Palpatine's sonorous tones.

Elegant, well groomed fingers negligently gestured, a dismissal. "It seems either - or neither - course of action resolves anything."

"Perhaps, perhaps not - so take a chance, try something different, my friend. I need you – our Republic needs you. Now that I've replaced Valorum, change is at our fingertips – but I can't do it alone. Help me make this republic prosper or let it slide further into greed and corruption."

Palpatine knew exactly what arguments would sway the Jedi master. He'd spent years getting to know the man's weaknesses and vanities. No matter how well controlled, every Jedi had them; no matter how immune to most persuasions, there was always a path available for one who knew the vulnerabilities to exploit. His appeal could not help but ally Dooku to his side once and for all.

So he got a rather horrible surprise with Dooku's next words.

"The bait you dangle is uncommonly tempting – but ultimately deceptive."

Palpatine stiffened; Dooku's sympathies had been entirely with him up to now. Both agreed that the Republic needed a strong, decisive man in charge of the government, someone who could tame the unruly beast that was the Senate, someone who could push through needed reforms and provide stability in these turbulent times.

It had taken little digging to find the Jedi master's tendency to reduce complex equations to a relatively simplistic approach: If compromise cannot be achieved, impose order. On this the two men were in complete agreement. Chaos was the only consistent result when multiple voices had input. Democracy favored stagnation and procrastination when the tyranny of the minority held the majority hostage; corruption all but inevitable.

Was Dooku's resolve weakening? His protest a last feeble attempt to avoid a decision that would lead him away from his Order – or a ruse to gain concessions, a bargaining tool?

Rueful acknowledgement underlay Palpatine's measured response. "It is a deception in service of the Republic, but I concede that deception must be inconceivable to a Jedi."

"Deception is sometimes required for the greater good, I've often thought," Dooku said mildly. "In fact we practice it rather often while deluding ourselves it is merely a certain point of view."

Spoken like a born politician – or negotiator; concede points and avoid commitment at any cost. What was Dooku bargaining for? Well, two could play at that game for an indefinite period of time. "Yes, yes, but only in the most extreme of circumstances. It is no secret, is it not, that the Queen's attacker was - I'm sorry – I'm sworn to secrecy -"

"A Sith." Dooku supplied, frowning. "Yes, it seems the Sith," he almost spat the word, "have arisen once more to embroil the galaxy into even more chaos than it is currently finding itself."

"Oh, my dear man, the Republic has gotten itself into difficulty all on its own. It didn't need the help of the Sith. I know your Order considers them an ancient enemy, thought to be long vanquished, but are they really so evil or just misguided?"

"My dear Chancellor, if the Sith have again arisen there is little doubt they are behind much of the chaos the Republic finds itself in. They do not create but destroy. They are not "bogeymen" to frighten younglings but thoroughly and unrepentantly evil on a level you cannot even begin to contemplate. Do not mistake them merely as beings that are capable of evil deeds; they are so much worse."

It appeared that thousands of years thinking their ancient enemy was wiped from the galaxy had made the Jedi complacent; now terror was held at bay only by iron discipline. Fear, not disdain underlay Dooku's vehemence.

The bogeyman in the closet, indeed.

Master Yoda was disturbed and uneasy; Master Windu truculent and upset, the rest of the Jedi Council in denial.

All the more ammunition for the Chancellor to persuade one of the leading Jedi masters to become a political ally, a warrior against evil in a way he could not should he remain a Jedi.

"Then fight them – fight for us. Unite the disaffected worlds, the unaligned worlds. Be a Force to be reckoned with – and the Senate will have to unite – whether behind you or against you, it does not matter."

Dooku's eyebrows rose. Ah, so he found it an intriguing thought. "A bold plan," he conceded. He sipped from his glass, his gaze never leaving Palpatine's face.

After a moment, he nodded. "It might work. It might have unintended consequences, as well. Very well, I shall reconsider my decision, however, I must insist on a postponement for something more urgent in my view. It seems once again I must intervene and try to heal this rift between Qui-Gon and young Kenobi. I might not have another chance for some time – should I accept your offer."

Ah, yes, Palpatine had researched Jinn and Kenobi in depth once he found out they were Valorum's ambassadors. A formidable Jedi team with an impressive list of missions, a team occasionally at odds with each other, a team usually in synch with each other. He had already known a bit about them both, since Jinn and Valorum were known to be friends. It always paid to know the friends of one's rivals. Connections were useful so very often in a politician's life.

Valorum's actions had been underhanded, if legal.

The Senate was nominally in charge of the Jedi Order, but as usual, posturing and bickering meant the Chancellor's office often quietly stepped in. Usually there was little outcry; this time Palpatine was sure it would have been different, with a baying for a sacrificial victim should a highly respected Jedi master have died pursuing Valorum's "foolhardy miscalculation."

It was quite terribly tragic that during what should have been a moment of triumph for both Jedi, things had gone so horribly wrong. Privileged information, to be sure, but information shared, however reluctantly, with the new Chancellor and few others outside the Jedi Order. Young Kenobi, the "Sith Killer" – oh, Palpatine knew well how these things got around amongst younglings, if not the elders – young Kenobi, the elder Jedi's salvation as well. And supposedly his master had repudiated him nearly at that very moment of triumph.

Could it be?

Certainly something odious had swirled around the two; the effects of their injuries he had perhaps mistakenly thought. His interest quickened. There was indeed something there to tantalize…something perhaps – useful.

Despite discreet inquiries, the Order had not shared either man's current status with his office. He could bypass official protocol and contact Qui-Gon Jinn directly: while asking about the man's health he could also further his interest in young Skywalker. Jinn was terribly proud of the boy and would be thrilled to have the boy befriended by the most powerful man in the Republic.

Jinn – reputed to be one of the best swordsmen in the Order - who had so nearly died at the hand at what was said to be a Sith apprentice, and so improbably lived by the hand of what was said to be an ordinary Jedi apprentice.

"Young Kenobi, yes…." Palpatine would dearly like to know more about this _mere apprentice_. "Rather an enigma, is he not? He succeeded where your padawan did not. What padawan could accomplish such a task when an accomplished master could not? A veritable miracle worker this young man turned out to be."

"My padawan would not choose one unworthy of his line."

Palpatine nearly snorted. He knew the boy had so nearly not been chosen; he not stood out in any particular way other than a certain proclivity to anger and impatience when young. Had the young man tamed those emotions through his years of training or did they lie beneath, a slumbering dragon that could awaken? Perhaps they had already stirred to life, powering the young man's lethal dispatching of a Sith who should have easily defeated two Jedi.

Young Kenobi most definitely was more than he outwardly appeared.

"And how is your padawan recovering, my friend? Young Kenobi, too, of course? Both looked, quite frankly, rather the worse for wear when your Council whisked them back to the Temple – I have been assured both are doing quite well under the circumstances when I have inquired."

Dooku's eyebrows drew together; a clear sign of his displeasure. "Qui-Gon is a fool!" Palpatine quietly awaited clarification with a mildly inquiring look that said _I hate to inquire but I will of course listen should you wish to unburden yourself._

With a fierce frown, Dooku stared into his glass and suddenly downed the remaining contents. "Quite frankly, I am disturbed. According to my old master, Yoda, my padawan is behaving oddly, more so than usual. He has utterly rejected young Kenobi in favor of young Skywalker and refuses to discuss why. My grand-padawan, while physically well, is otherwise damaged and in need of tending, while a child deemed to be our savior now trains to be a Jedi. A slave boy – and so Qui-Gon dotes on him; yet another stray on which he has taken pity."

"A planet's savior," Palpatine shot back, annoyed at the condescension within the Jedi master's tone. "Fault not the boy for a life he was born into, Master Jedi. Slavery is a most foul and reprehensible condition; _it_ should be condemned, not those born to it."

Dooku's eyes narrowed at the verbal rebuke. A retort died on his lips, locked behind the grim line of his mouth before he finally nodded, conceding the point. "I apologize, Chancellor. His background is perhaps no more sordid than that of numerous Jedi. Past lives are discarded once one is admitted into the Order, but inarguably it is true that many Jedi are in the Order because outside of it they likely would have been considered outcasts of society, 'unfortunate births' for various reasons. Some parents consider it merciful to surrender these 'undesirable children' to the Order. Others, of course, consider it their duty; some, their honor."

"Like young Anakin," Palpatine prodded.

"Like young Anakin." It was a grudging concession. While inside he fumed at the hypocrisy of such self-righteous, such aggravating Jedi, Palpatine plastered a conciliatory smile on his face and sat back, outwardly mollified.

"And despite his 'unfortunate birth' he is a member of your Order now."

"He is."

"Then he is by definition a very worthy young man, indeed. I suppose you know…," Palpatine coughed delicately, "he is not just Naboo's savior, but – "his eyes gleamed as Dooku betrayed the merest hint of irritation, "now acknowledged by _your_ Order to potentially be the savior of our very galaxy? That must make him very powerful in your Force, my friend."

His words were like a spark to dry tinder.

"If the reports are accurate, he certainly may be, but potentiality does not necessarily translate into actuality. One of lesser potential often exceeds those of greater through sheer hard work and determination. Young Kenobi is an excellent example – it's a tragedy, really; what he might now never achieve."

Palpatine's gaze sharpened. "That unfortunate young man…was he so very full of potential?"

Unexpectedly, Dooku chuckled though there was no mirth behind it. "Qui-Gon certainly didn't think so years ago. Refused the boy outright; feared he was a prime candidate to go dark." With little urging other than Palpatine's tilt of the head, he continued, "To look at him, there is nothing outwardly exceptional about him – but he did kill a Sith and somehow saved my padawan from almost certain death – hardly the actions of an 'unexceptional padawan.' The Force all but dances around him; it's quite extraordinary, really."

Exceptional indeed; nearly knighted and now disowned by his master – was there something the Jedi Order was withholding from him? He really should check on the poor boy, perhaps when he checked on young Anakin. Two such young and strong Jedi – oh, yes, a Chancellor wishing to strengthen his Republic could use two such extraordinary heroes on his side, assuming the one did recover and realize this potential that Dooku hinted at.

Still, he was an expert on decoding the unspoken and Dooku was concerned, quite concerned. Dismayed, one might say, at Kenobi's "damage"; dismayed that this potential was – squandered?

Infusing his voice with deep sympathy, he declared, "Then it's such a shame his potential has been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Dooku shook his head, rejecting the very idea. "I'm not so sure of that. The Force provides many paths to an outcome foreseen, but journey's end is usually the same. Whether or not he taps into the Force, it taps into him and always shall. Kenobi shall always remain a servant of the Force and that, my friend, will always make him a threat to - "

"Yes, yes," Palpatine waved a hand in dismissal. "I understand the boy is your grand-padawan, Dooku, and thus a paragon of Jedi virtue in your eyes. It is only natural you are concerned for his future, as am I. I, too, shall watch his progress with your kind permission, he and young Anakin both. Both shall help shape the galaxy in the years to come."

He leaned back in his seat, gently smiling. Oh, yes, he was most definitely going to keep a close eye on both young men: he would be most remiss should he not. He had much to accomplish, and he had little doubt each could be persuaded to help him achieve it.

It only took the right persuasion.


	31. Overcoming Inertia

Suddenly, it recently appeared(after the last two chapters) that all reviewers have disappeared (from my email inbox) and I thought this story had lost all its readers. Lo and behold, I out of mere curiosity click on reviews - and surprise. Sadly, it makes any individual responses a lot more difficult.

So, instead, a group response. **Thank you **for continuing to read.

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* * *

****Chapter 31. Overcoming Inertia **

"Well, now." Blue-gray eyes framed by long, thick lashes above somewhat round cheeks and a chin with a bit of a cleft in it gazed thoughtfully right back at him. "I think I know you."

It was a wonderful revelation, proof of how far back he had fought.

Only in hindsight had Obi-Wan become fully aware of the extent of the plots to involve him back into Temple life and of all who were involved. How could he not, when he had been urged to the gardens, urged to the crèche, urged to the classrooms and the dining hall.

And he was grateful that they cared.

Unaware of just what exactly was going on, he had let himself be drawn into the plans, protests muted – not sure if he wished to protest or comply – not sure he had the strength to fight – but determined whatever was going on, it all was in his best interest. Yoda had made that all too clear to him though it had been Mace's steadfast support that had supported him through the shock of facing all his pain. He had needed to do more than just face it, but to release it and move past it, a process he was clearly now well into. "It" would no longer have the power to paralyze him because he would not allow it that power over him.

The constant encouragement, even the recent dive into his past had made Obi-Wan wish to reclaim the man he had found in holopics and mission reports. No, it was not enough to drift through his life. Drifting was not living, even if drifting had numbed the pain. There could be no growth without effort, nothing worthwhile to achieve without work.

And not a few tears along the way, he thought with a sigh, not all behind him, not yet. His grasp on his emotions was still tenuous, that of a half-trained Jedi rather than the almost-knight he was. Mace Windu had made it clear that his promotion was a formality only, only lacking the ceremony to make it official and public – but he hadn't accepted that in his mind or soul. He couldn't accept it, not until he could look into the mirror and see a knight, not the wide-eyed young man still unsure that the Padawan Kenobi he had been had yet been resurrected.

Hurdles – there were still hurdles to overcome and goals to achieve before that day arrived.

The healers told him his recovery was going well, despite the occasional mental blank spots that continued to plague him, the now nearly imperceptible tremors in his hands or the frustrating inability to "mind his feelings."

Not to mention the mental itch; a memory hidden and tapping at his mind, a "feeling" neither good nor ill as yet – was it the Force seeking readmittance to his mind, or echoes of cellular damage undergoing repair?

Healing well: despite the somewhat haunting and barely acknowledged fear that somewhere along the way he would stall: part the broken man he had been and part the Jedi he had worked so hard to be. A dread of being an object of sympathy? His colleagues would never "pity" him; pity was an emotion appropriate for circumstances, not people, according to Jedi teachings.

"Pity" was dehumanizing.

_And being tossed aside like yesterday's outdated model was not?  
_

Obi-Wan took a deep breath – and slowly released it.

He had his fair share of successful missions under his belt, even some solo ones. So he wasn't the latest and greatest model of padawan – who was?

_Anakin Skywalker_, his mind stated wryly.

_The Chosen One should be_, he argued back.

And found he believed it. Maybe – maybe the Force had truly guided Qui-Gon to train this boy. He examined the idea with some interest. Force knew Qui-Gon Jinn was not the most tactful of men when he felt the Force's will was being willfully thwarted by the combined obstinacy of the Council.

_I didn't make it easy on him did I? _

_Did you ever?_

_Did you use to argue with yourself all the time?_ Two heads shook their head at the foolishness of that question.

Maybe he just needed to look outward, not inward for a while before he started worrying about what other Jedi thought of him – maybe start thinking about his friends and how they only wished to be his friends. Some friend he was by shutting them out.

_I am a fool!_

Obi-Wan made a face in the mirror, a slightly goofy face this time and one mirrored right back at him. _You _definitelyare _a fool!_ He grinned, and the face grinned back – this time, his breath caught in his throat. That face reminded him of the face in some of the holopics Mace Windu had retrieved for him. Obi-Wan Kenobi's face, not some stranger's.

His face.

A pleasant enough face, he mused, no longer the mournful and hollow-eyed face that had stared at him each morning for far too long now.

"Hmm," he finally pronounced. "Well, now - that's good, very good."

His hair was getting a bit long, his braid a bit tattered – not the usual look he went for, but common enough after a long and harrowing mission. _You really ought to take a bit more pride in your appearance. _

_Should I now?_ He lifted a rakish eyebrow at his reflection.

_Your focus is your reality, Kenobi!_ He even found a smile in him at the oft-heard admonishment running through his mind.

A knock at the door had him wondering how long he'd been gazing so intently at himself. Running a hand over his now smooth chin, he reached for the door.

"Sorry, Master Windu, I didn't mean to take so long."

"As long as you didn't _try _to hurry," was the dry response.

Obi-Wan stared; then grinned as he caught the joke. He crossed his arms and stated, "A Jedi does not try – or at least admit that out loud. Master Yoda has very big ears."

Shaking his head, Mace took a step inside; then laid a hand on Obi-Wan's arm as he meant to exit the fresher. The Jedi master cleared his throat and coughed; then his hand caught the disheveled braid.

"It's a bit ratty and needs to be redone; I'd be pleased if you'd allow me the honor."

Suddenly, Obi-Wan's throat was too dry for words. "I – I –"

"That's okay." It might have been the first and only time Obi-Wan had heard the Korun master at a loss for words. Obi-Wan grasped at his sleeve before he could make his escape. He bit his lip, then reached up with his other hand and undid the tie that held his braid together. He held onto it until Mace's hand came up to catch the beads and ribbons once he let go.

"Please."

With a silent nod, Mace replaited the braid. Still silent, he clasped Obi-Wan's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before exiting the fresher.

With eyes that were a tad bit too bright, Obi-Wan turned back to the mirror. It was quite possible the worst braiding job he had ever seen; the strands uneven and the beads off center, but at least all the loose strands were firmly back in place. A poke here and a tug there would straighten it out beautifully. Obi-Wan's hand half rose, hesitated, and then lowered to his side. It would be a shame to ruin what Mace's fingers had so carefully wrought.

Obi-Wan tilted his head - and smiled. He decided to leave this gift from one not-so-fearsome Jedi master it just the way it was.

_Deft, strangely certain fingers finished weaving the braid that signified their pairing. _

"_A trifle crooked." He grinned and shook his head, remembering his own awed delight years back. It had been perfect, perhaps the best braid ever seen in the Temple, at least until his curious fingers twirled a little too hard. Like everything else he touched, Master Dooku had woven a precisely even, perfectly aligned braid. He had not quite managed to raise a precisely even, perfectly aligned knight to match._

_He had been a trial and a tribulation to his master on quite a few occasions, as he remembered. Despite their differing personalities, they had managed to get on quite well on a professional level. He hadn't wanted or needed a father-figure nor was Dooku one to consent to such a relationship. Qui-Gon wanted to learn and Dooku wished to teach. _

_This one kneeling before him was already more than just student: a friend, a son in many ways. He had been drawn to the boy upon their first meeting: a charmer with an enchanting smile and an affinity for the Living Force even at such a young age. No, there would be no trials and tribulations with this one, he was convinced. Convinced to meditate on his choice for padawan, he had sought affirmation through the Force. _

_And how it had come, nearly crashing him to his knees with wave upon wave approval and satisfaction. _

"_So sure are you of what it is that the Force is rejoicing?" Yoda had voiced, echoed by Master Dooku. _

_He was sure. There had never been any doubt in his mind, then or now._

_His fingers traced fondly through the raven locks, dropped onto the slim shoulders and guided his new apprentice to a mirror. Pride was reflected in both pairs of eyes. "What do you think, Padawan?"_

"Xani…," Qui-Gon murmured brokenly and shifted restlessly in his sleep. The dream fractured and reformed.

_He held the strands of the braid in his hand, incomplete as yet. He was beholden to the boy, already committed to being his master by the simple offer and acceptance of training. There was no longer any doubt that the boy had the makings of a Jedi, no doubt that his open emotions needed restraint. This pairing was ordained by the Force and so he no longer fought it. He had made peace with it and found acceptance, his denial and objections swept away by one simple gift – that of a boy preparing to give his life up to save others._

_He had finally understood: this boy was Jedi._

_But there was little in the way of magic in their pairing; only prosaic acceptance that this was the Force's will. He would be a good master to this boy; he would be teacher and mentor. He hadn't within him to be more._

_But perhaps Obi-Wan had it within him to change things. He would not resist it, should it happen, but he would not pursue it either. _

_He would leave this to the Force to decide, for he did not trust himself, nor yet, Obi-Wan. Only, and always, the Force._

_Carefully easing out a sigh, he slipped the final loop onto the braid and let it dangle, this fire bright stand of spun gold, and russet brown which matched the fire bright spirit. _

"_Well, I guess it is official now, Padawan." He smiled and tugged the braid as a smile spread over the young face that turned to look at him. It suddenly struck him that everything about this boy was bright: spirit, eyes and smile - everything except his master. He squeezed the boy's shoulder and stood, a hint of melancholy and sorrow intermixed with a dash of satisfaction and hope lurking deep within. _

_It was months before he touched the boy again, other than to correct a saber grip, tend a mild saber burn or replait an unkempt braid._

"And I didn't touch him again for several months…" The shamed thought accompanied his rise to consciousness. Qui-Gon groaned, turned over and dropped back to the bed.

"I have a new padawan now," he lectured the Force, his voice muffled against his pillow. "Why these dreams of those who have passed out of my life?"

The Force was silent.

Qui-Gon sighed. He knew the answer without the Force's prompting: all lives left imprints on all those others with whom they interacted. He would never be free of Xanatos or Obi-Wan.

With that depressing thought, he pulled the pillow over his head and sought for sleep.

_I will reach for my future rather than let it come to me. I will stand on my own two feet and let Master Windu and Yoda only give me a hand up when I fall, rather than leaning on them all the time._

It had become Obi-Wan's mantra, a reminder that there could be no success without striving. Without the Force to guide him, he had to rely on such words. Sometimes he wasn't sure he wanted to touch the Force again; sometimes he wanted to cry at its absence from his life. It had offered solace and guidance for so long, tingled through his blood and cells offering a clarity of sight and connection that now seemed almost a dream – and had sizzled through him on Naboo with such excruciating pain as he never wished to experience again.

It had carried him through those first forays into Temple life, past his fear of being labeled as crazy, or half-a-Jedi, or whatever his imagination could drum up.

_Do not let fear guide you, Obi-Wan_. It had not been a reproof, but gentle encouragement from Master Yoda.

Fear had nearly strangled him at one of Mace's suggestions.

At first he was urged to the gardens; at first he had tried to demur.

"_Qui-Gon won't be there, Obi-Wan." _

"_But – "_

"_Unless you bring him."_

_He swallowed hard, and nodded, accepting the reminder. Regardless of external forces, it was a Jedi's internal focus that governed his reactions for better or worse. It was the principle underlying many Jedi tests. _

He went to the gardens.

And felt just a bit stronger.

He went a second time, then a third.

When he heard a burst of childish laughter not far away, rather than shying away as once before, he paused and turned towards them. His eyes strayed to their unseen presence, betraying a certain lingering wistfulness for the days when the biggest hurts were easily bandaged and easily forgotten.

Others watched and noticed, and were heartened.

Tales of the oft-wondered about absent-from-sight padawan slowly spread through the Temple. Whatever mysterious malady affected Obi-Wan Kenobi seemed to be moderating. Rumor once had had it that he had been left half-crippled, brain-damaged, a man unlikely ever to participate in Temple life again. Such was all but now proven false since the rarely glimpsed Jedi was occasionally in evidence, often alone or in company with a healer, Yoda, or the most unlikely of companions, Master Windu himself.

Oh, it was true, his gait was _just_ a bit stiff, his grin _just_ a bit lopsided if present and his eyes _just_ a bit wary - but he was getting around without help, not like that time he was practically held upright by – oh, yes, indeed, Master Windu himself – when first leaving the healers. Well, no, he wasn't seen to spar or anything like that. He had lost his lightsaber in his duel, that was true, but he could have used a training one temporarily.

And while he had never been known as exuberant and outgoing, he had always been courteous and pleasant in manner before this. Approachable, but now he was a bit distant as it were.

And his focus and attention to the moment - he startled if one approached silently – it was like he was unable to sense anyone around him, that he had to see or hear them like those unfortunate souls who could not touch the Force.

But the invisible man was no more.

He now went to the gardens as well, every day it seemed, not just to physical therapy and not just to the mind healers. Just because he went there didn't mean anything, of course – the Council required sessions after any traumatic mission. Sure, he could be crazy, but he wasn't.

Because he was still Padawan Kenobi, even if padawan to – well, who now? But at least he was no longer the invisible casualty of Naboo.

That had to be good, didn't it?

_Master Windu knows me too well!_

With little conscious thought to guide him there, Obi-Wan found himself hesitating outside the crèche one morning. With a soft mental command to move, he licked his lips and stepped forward into controlled bedlam.

"Crèche Master Soletna has a few new arrivals of various ages," Mace had casually mentioned over breakfast, a datapad in his hand as Obi-Wan served first meal. New additions to the Order were usually half a standard year to two years old, though some arrived as newborns and a few as late as three.

Many were a bit scared and uncertain at first, lost amongst strangers. Bolas Soletna took charge of the newcomers; his warm manner and gentle ways usually settled the youngsters down within a day or so of arrival; his ability to wrap the Force around each to ease their transition from their old lives to the new was almost legendary.

Obi-Wan had no memory of his own arrival. The Temple had always been his home, as far as he knew. If there had ever been a mother's arms around him, he would not know. He had never inquired.

He did not care to know if his mother shed tears – or sighed in relief.

"Need another hand for a few hours, Master Soletna?" Obi-Wan diffidently inquired.

"Obi-Wan!" The smile that graced the man's face was undimmed by the years as he looked over his shoulder. "The more the merrier, I always say – more attention for the wee ones. Hey, mind little Y'ellian by your feet, would you? That child crawls faster than your friend Reeft used to shovel food down his throat."

A tiny hand clutched at Obi-Wan's pant leg as he glanced down. Before he could squat, Y'ellian rocked onto small feet and promptly fell against Obi-Wan's leg, landing with a bump on her rear.

"Trying to get the hang of standing up?" Obi-Wan kneeled and raised the child to her feet, holding onto her hands.

Solemn eyes stared back at him, and then the child promptly burst into tears. "M'mah'a," she hiccupped.

"M'mah'a is not here just now," Obi-Wan said softly, gleaning who "M'ma'a" was from the tears as well as the syllables. Mom, Mother, Mama – in all humanoid cultures the word sounded much alike. "M'mah'a thought you'd be happier here, amongst others like you. Will you let us make you happy, little young?"

As abruptly as the tears fell, a tiny nod of the head followed. If she didn't understand Basic yet, she understood she had found a friend.

"The wee ones always cure what ails you," Master Solenta said cheerfully, carefully refraining from making any direct references to Obi-Wan. The young man was grateful, though he had known the old master would not make him uncomfortable. It was one reason he had ventured here, it was a safe and small step forward.

He could let go of any worries here – and just play.

So he did.


	32. Operation ObiWan

**Chapter 32. Operation: Obi-Wan**

Anakin woke to find his master sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling at him. "Mornin', Master," he mumbled, rubbing sleepy eyes and getting a faceful of pillow to his surprise.

"Hey!" he yelped. He grabbed the pillow and smacked Qui-Gon right back, getting a faked "oomph" in return. The two tussled for a few minutes, until Anakin tackled the big Jedi with a flying leap from his bed. The man went down in a tangle of limbs and laughter as Anakin giggled triumphantly atop of him, only to be suddenly upended and held upside down by an invisible hand.

"So, you thought you won?" Qui-Gon sat up, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"Let me down, let me down!"

"Okay," the Jedi agreed amiably, eliciting another yelp, this one of protest as Anakin tumbled towards the carpet, only to be caught within strong arms. Qui-Gon set the boy down, tousling his hair affectionately. This one would never – never – have cause to link his master with a lack of affection. His dream had affected him more than he wished to admit. Xan had received plenty of affection even if Obi-Wan had suffered from its lack in the early days. No, he could not blame any action on his part for their failures – but all the same, he could be sure that Anakin received all that he needed from Qui-Gon as both Jedi master and man. The rest was up to Anakin himself – and the Force.

He wrapped an arm around the boy and ushered him to the kitchen. The only thing the boy relished more than affection was food.

He determined to stock up on both.

"A tactical genius you are, Mace Windu," Yoda gently applauded, hearing how Mace had maneuvered Obi-Wan to the crèche with just a few carefully chosen words. The Force had known what it was about, for Yoda was more certain than ever that Mace's stepping forward to take charge of the young man was meant to be. He still didn't understand why Obi-Wan was enduring this trial of body and spirit, this trial on top of the trials he had faced on Naboo.

But trials were meant to strengthen a Jedi, to reveal that which lay underneath. So it had always been and so it would always be.

The purpose of this trial was yet shrouded. More was in store the Force seemed to whisper, and not just for Obi-Wan, but for young Anakin and Qui-Gon. The galaxy was darkening and the Force was no longer as illuminating as it had once been to one who had delved deeply into its mysteries for centuries.

A ghost of a shiver traveled up his spine. A half-forgotten memory, a lost padawan – but the clouds did not part and the memory remained elusive.

"Once we get Obi-Wan to think beyond himself, most of the work is done, eh?" Yoda slyly poked at Mace's ankle. He suddenly sobered. "Key to Obi-Wan's character that is and a wondrous trait it is that the Force has gifted him, but a gift that can harm as much as it uplifts."

"Naboo," Mace tested the word out. "Naboo?"

Yoda's great eyes closed; yes, the Force seemed to agree – and yet, disagree. "Important his actions on Naboo were but how…? On this I must meditate, while you continue in our battle to restore our youngling to full health, but careful you must be."

"What of Qui-Gon and young Anakin?"

"In other hands are they. Their part they have played, but at the Force's will – or another's is not yet clear."

Qui-Gon was right about at least one thing: the dark was gathering strength. Already it wove its first thin tendrils about and through the Force's guardians, the strongest bulwark the Light had. So ephemeral was its touch, so much mist and air and a lessening of the light that it could not be seen and barely sensed.

Its origins could be – anywhere, but it was close. It would have to grow and strengthen before it could be combated, and that thought was what worried Yoda most.

What if he helped to strengthen the very thing – or person – that brought the darkness?

"Master Windu," he called after the departing master. "With Obi-Wan great care you must take. Great care."

Careful, for the dark slunk in his wake and crept at his feet, watching and waiting for the wounded prey to falter and fall. Already shorn of his most potent defense, Obi-Wan was vulnerable.

The Order could protect him, but only the Force could keep him safe.

_Best see to it that you do_, the aged master whispered. _Care to lose him I do not._

The Force gave no reply.

With Yoda's welcome endorsement of his tactical efforts, Mace planned his next move. Obi-Wan seemed to feel most at ease when few took open notice of his presence, yet it was time to ease him back into the greater community, something he had as yet resisted.

How best to accomplish this dual goal – then the beautifully simple answer struck Mace.

The idea was planned and executed by the co-conspirators with precision, grace – and a touch of unintended humor. Timing and execution were key.

It started with the chime of the doorbell.

"Answer that, will you?" Mace called from his room and then quietly moved to a spot to observe the opening salvo.

Two delighted friends barely chorused, "Hi, Obi" before they all but fell upon Obi-Wan. The young Jedi grunted in surprise and adroitly caught Bant as she wrapped him in a hug. He returned it and then in one smooth motion set her on her feet all the while looking pleasantly pleased to be so greeted. Mace heaved a sigh of relief; he had felt certain that Obi-Wan was ready to see his friends but only now had he confirmation of that assumption.

"You're looking much better, Obi." Bant pinched his cheek as Garen clapped his friend on the back; then with an oh-what-the-heck-shrug apparently decided to hug him as well, stepping forward with arms wide.

"Umm, hi, too, and thanks for keeping your assault upon my lowly person relatively gentle," Obi-Wan observed dryly, stepping back and holding up his hands in mock protection, only to grin as Bant huffed at him.

"'Lowly person!' Obi-Wan Kenobi, don't you dare talk like that, you're our fr–" She grunted as Garen clapped a hand over her mouth and whispered, "Master Windu is standing right there – you know – member of the Council and all that. Behave."

Wide-eyed, Bant gulped and bowed. "Good evening, Master Windu." Her greeting was echoed a moment later after a non-too-subtle elbow to her companion's side.

_Like crechlings trying hard to remember proper etiquette in the presence of their elders; their greetings awkward and painfully formal in execution. Co-conspirators they might be, but still two easily intimidated ones._

"Good evening, Padawan Eerin, Knight Muln," said individual acknowledged mildly. As for Obi-Wan – a quick sideways glance at that young man caught a sparkling gleam of amusement within the blue-gray eyes, not the look of contrition that Mace expected for being the inadvertent cause of his friends' discomfiture. When those eyes were raised to his, the amusement not muted in the slightest, Mace was struck by the realization that the young man felt comfortable enough around the older man to share a joke at his friends' expense.

Obi-Wan was – at ease – in his presence.

Like a padawan with his master. And he welcomed it! The slight shadow that crossed his face faded into wry awareness. His concern for this former padawan of a once close friend had transformed little by little into a deeper personal regard for the man himself, somewhat akin to a master for his own padawan, reminding him of his years with Depa, now some years behind them both. He had neither expected nor wished for such a thing, but he could not truly say he regretted it. This young man had a knack for making himself at home at another's side.

With a nearly imperceptible wink at Obi-Wan, Mace crossed his arms and scowled as the two Jedi nervously shifted stances, drawing together almost unconsciously. Suppressing a twitch that wished to be a grin, he pointed a finger at them as he intoned, "I suppose I should congratulate you on having wisdom enough to release Kenobi from your friendly clutches before I had to intervene."

Bant gulped and Garen swallowed a croak.

_Did he – was he – was that a joke?_ Two pairs of eyes turned to Obi-Wan, who swallowed a cough and gave a slight nod of his head. He wasn't sure they believed him. He wouldn't have believed it, either, if it hadn't been for the past few weeks.

"Ah, okay." Bant nodded uncertainly as Garen's eyes darted between Mace and Obi-Wan. Taking a deep breath, she added, "We came to take you to the dining hall for dinner tonight. C'mon, grab your cloak and let's go – and we're not taking 'no' for an answer."

_Oh_. Obi-Wan blinked. The invitation was – unexpected.

"Great idea," Mace chimed in.

"I – I'd rather –"

"Enjoy tasting something besides my cooking?" Mace barked. He scowled, grabbed his cloak, draped Obi-Wan's over his shoulders and led the way out, adding over his shoulder, "So would I." After a moment's hesitation, Obi-Wan tucked his arms within his sleeves and trailed after, ensconced between his two friends, uncertain of just why he was reluctant to face his fellow Jedi.

His fingertips clutching tightly to the sleeves of his robe as he walked, he tried to analyze his feelings, as a Jedi would do.

He could come to no firm conclusion. He could not even decide if it was them or himself he did not wish to face, let alone the reason. Was it shame? Fear?

Vulnerability? That was a distinct possibility; he'd always felt a bit uncomfortable around those whose presence was invisible in the Force. Now all were. There was a - a _flavor_ missing, like a word at the back of one's tongue, a tickle that could not be scratched that turned even those he knew best into partial-strangers.

_Well, you'll just have to adapt, Kenobi._

Then a new, far more unsettling thought struck him, one he wished to deny but could not in conscience.

Could it be vanity – alone or in combination with pride?

He had seen some of the holo footage of his training sessions, his aerial maneuvers and flashy twirls of his lightsaber. The man he was now was a far cry from that confident - too confident? – padawan who knew his trials could not be too far away.

_Pride goeth before a fall_.

Did the Force wish to humble him?

He quietly sighed. Troubling thoughts, in any case, he admitted, yet it could just be as simple as he did not trust himself to display the equanimity of a Jedi at peace in the Force, the _strength_ in the face of adversity which had instead reduced him all too often to tears.

_Why_, however, did not matter. Not at this moment. He was here, and Garen and Bant, and Master Windu were with him.

Mace didn't slow down as he strode through the double doors; neither did Garen or Bant though each shifted just a bit closer to him. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Obi-Wan followed, taking a tray and gazing at the array of food without any real interest. He was far more aware of each breath he took, each pulse of his heart beating in his veins, and the sudden, disconcerting realization that his entrance had caused no stir at all – the knights and masters present had merely glanced up at their entrance and then resumed their quiet conversations.

Slightly embarrassed by thinking his entry would be so dramatic as to focus all attention on himself – and why should it?; calmed by the presence of the three who flanked him – Obi-Wan selected a bowl of soup and a small salad from the available items and hesitated, eyes roaming over the tables as he waited for his slower companions.

"You're going to eat yourself into an early grave, Garen," Bant's soft words floated past him, barely registering. Garen's laugh and quick retort escaped his wandering attention; Mace's voice pulled it back to his three companions.

"Why don't you three go eat by yourselves," Mace suggested, turning to face Obi-Wan. "That way you don't have to be on your 'best behavior'– but if you start a food fight you _will_ be before the Council tomorrow explaining your actions."

"The Terrible Trio reunited," Obi-Wan murmured, remembering a rather too accurate name given them many years and many memories ago.

Garen snickered; then colored as Mace gave him a stern look.

"I'm going to join Yoda and Yaddle – I just hope they're not eating that disgusting swamp food. It stinks…." Mace's nose wrinkled in disgust as he headed towards that table.

"Yessir." A smile twitched at Obi-Wan's lips, for he had recognized Mace's scowl for what it was. He turned to his friends. "That's the real Mace Windu you got a glimpse of – he's been so – understanding. Without him…," he shrugged helplessly. Needing to change the subject, he abruptly asked, "Are you really planning to eat all that, Garen?"

His tray was piled high with a variety of food, enough even to make their absent and perennially-hungry friend Reeft full. There was even three – yes, three - helpings of Obi-Wan's weakness – sweetberry tart. He'd been oh-so-tempted but had passed it by, choosing plain and simple fare to satisfy his growing but still meager appetite. Bant had made no comment, but he had glimpsed Garen's raised eyebrow of disbelief.

"Is that all _you_ were planning to eat?" Garen demanded in return, looking at Obi-Wan's rather sparse tray as they sat down. "Soup, salad, beverage. Not even a dessert." He clucked in disapproval.

"He doesn't want to start waddling around as you will soon be doing," Bant commented rather tartly.

Garen didn't even bother to look offended. A cheeky grin accompanied his ever so magnanimously pronounced proclamation that, "I'm going to feed some of this to Obi; Force knows he needs some fattening up. As his friend I figure it's my duty to put temptation in his way. You know Obi – he won't be able to resist the sweet lure of juicy sweetberry tarts for long if they're sitting in front of him just begging to be devoured, hence three helpings - two for me and one for him."

He leaned back in his seat, looking rather pleased with himself. Bant rolled her eyes and Obi-Wan just shook his head, though a slight smile twitched at his lips.

Undeterred by his friend's lack of apparent enthusiasm, Garen tried a different tack. He motioned to a mound of sauce-draped ribs on his plate. "Okay, food first, dessert later you purist." On a sudden whim, he speared a piece of meat and thrust it towards his friend. "C'mon Obi, try one of these."

Utensils clattered as Obi-Wan evaded the offered bite. "Gar, please – no."

Setting all teasing aside, Garen asked sympathetically, "Not much of an appetite as yet?"

"No." Not for food, not for mingling. It wasn't very Jedi of him, but every since awakening at the Temple he had felt out of step, just as he had at age twelve with an uncertain future ahead of him. He was disoriented within his mind, and hence within his body.

No point on dwelling on that, though. He had to move on and let everything settle into place.

Obi-Wan tasted his soup, made a face, and added a bit of seasoning. Temple food tended to be rather bland, at least that meant for humans; it was left to the individual to season foods to personal taste. Though he had chosen easily digested foods, he still preferred his food to have _some_ flavor.

After another, far more satisfactory swallow, he added ever so casually as his eyes flickered between Garen and Bant, "I assume Reeft and Siri are still away, since Master Windu would have roped them in on your little conspiracy if they were here."

No twitch of a muscle betrayed either one, no look of chagrin crossed either face.

Yet Obi-Wan knew he was right.

Plausible deniability was not possible, not with his two friends, no matter how innocent they looked. It hadn't taken Force abilities to see right through their little charade. He'd grown up with them, after all.

"Why, you little Sith!" Suddenly Garen's eyes widened in delight. "Obi! You've got the Force back," he chortled, playfully punching his friend in the arm.

The glee behind the words was a vibroblade to his heart, a stark reminder of all that he had lost. Obi-Wan had persuaded himself that the Force was merely elusive, beyond his grasp due to his injury. To hear his loss voiced aloud as if it were common knowledge – implied it was perhaps more, perhaps – not just elusive but – perhaps, truly, lost.

Gone.

"You – you know?" His voice was a thin whisper of sound, shaky, just like his hands.

"Obi." Bant took one of his hands within hers, gently caressing it as if the exterior Obi-Wan was as fragile as the interior he tried not to reveal. "It's not common knowledge, no, but it's not a secret, either. Remember what the healers told you: once you're whole, you will reach for the Force again."

"But I may not touch it again, again." To this there was no answer. Only time would tell. That's what the healers promised, and only that.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, scrubbing away doubt and uncertainty or at least the outward illusion of such. This was his burden to work through. Already Bant was trying to console him. Garen looked stricken and sick at heart. There was no one he could truly confide in, no one to force him to speak what was so painful to think of. He'd already put Master Windu through so much, Yoda as well. Qui-Gon, well, that avenue was forever now denied him.

Only the Force could assure him and sooth the unspoken question burning in his soul. Why?

_Only_ the Force…?

No, he did know someone apt to focus on solutions, not sympathy, someone blunt and practical – someone – Siri.

Abruptly, he asked, "Any word on when Reeft or Siri will return?"

A quizzical look met his question, but after a moment Garen seemed satisfied. "Nope." As if aware of a dribble of sauce on his lips, he swiped a hand across his mouth before answering. "It may be a while until Siri and Adi return is about all I hear."

"Oh." Obi-Wan toyed with a bite of food. His hopes were dashed almost at inception; his disappointment acute. His friendship with Siri shifted like the sands, she of a mercurial temperament only blunted by Jedi training, he of a focused discipline that sometimes made him seem aloof and detached, indifferent to others. Fire and Ice some had called them. They were often at odds but often in complementary symmetry, for they were more alike than either wished to admit.

Blunt and forthright, always teetering on the edge of tactlessness, Siri was also loyal and compassionate. She would fight him and for him if she thought he wasn't fighting hard enough for himself. Loyal almost to a fault, Bant and Garen would support him, but they would not challenge him to face reality in the way that Siri would.

It would do him good to have that challenge thrown at his feet – or stuffed down his throat, more than likely.

Mace had wisely chosen a later hour when the dining hall was traditionally less crowded for this so-far successful reintegration of Obi-Wan into Temple life. Initiates and young padawans alike tended to eat early, their appetites those of growing children, so few would be present to unwittingly make Obi-Wan uncomfortable with their curiosity and attention.

Just as he had counted on, any Jedi present was mature enough to take their cues on behavior from body posture; they had not nor would they approach Obi-Wan unless he himself initiated contact.

It had been Mace's suggestion that Bant and Garen offer the "spontaneous" invitation to late meal, knowing full well that the presence of his friends would help ease any potential unease on Obi-Wan's part. So delighted had the two been that they had barely stopped to consider the implications: venturing to the senior Jedi's quarters had proven more difficult in actuality than in theory.

It seemed the only Jedi he didn't intimidate were his fellow Council members – and now Obi-Wan Kenobi. He supposed it was only expected; after all, the young man had faced a Sith – and survived. The Sith had not.

"Laughing he is, good to see it is," Yoda declared with a meaningful glance to the side where the three friends sat. "If ever a war we find ourselves in, in charge of strategy I will place you."

"We are always in a war against the dark," Mace retorted.

"Not like we can now expect. The reemergence of the Sith…harsh times lie ahead." Yaddle's gentle face was harsh with foreboding. She nodded to the three friends across the room, her gaze lingering on Obi-Wan. "Believe I do that the first blow has been struck in the ongoing fight as well as the second. Wonder I do if the third as well."

The words hung in the air between them. Mentally, Mace ticked off the points: a Sith emerged from the darkness, a Sith slain and – he glanced again at young Kenobi, now looking pensive in the wake of laughter – raised his eyes to Yaddle's and breathed, "Obi-Wan? Are you intimating that Obi-Wan -"

"Saying THAT I am not, saying I am that what has befallen Padawan Kenobi may well be another blow by the Sith against the Jedi, against one who has dealt the Sith a mighty blow of his own."

Mace liked the implications of this statement even less. He let out a little huff of frustrated air, checked to make sure his voice didn't rise with his incredulous disbelief because despite everything, he was friends with the man even if right now he wanted nothing to do with him. "Qui-Gon? He's many things, but -"

In deference to the public nature of the dining hall, Yoda's gimer stick merely rose and pointed at Mace, immediately shutting up the Korun master. "No! Of actions we speak, not of people. As much a victim as young Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon may be. How or why I do not begin to know, even know if I am on the right track I do not but one thing I do know: the Force is struggling to be heard and when we hear its voice - prepared we must be to follow who or where it leads, regardless of the cost."

The one part of the speech that silenced Mace was the simple acknowledgement that Yoda – the revered grandmaster with the deepest attunement to the Force known in centuries – even he no longer heard the Force as clearly as before.

_When_ we hear its voice….

It couldn't be a coincidence that the Force was growing murky and tainted just as the Sith had proven to be no myth from the past. There were no such things in the Force, only unseen connections.

The Sith emerged from darkness, one slain - and one remained in the shadows. Two – always two. A master and an apprentice. Two. No more, no less.

And now there was but one.

Suddenly, Mace shivered. For there were always two – and the one would now be on the prowl.


	33. Weaving a New Reality

**Chapter 33**. **Weaving A New Reality**

To one who lived and prowled in the darkness, murkiness was no hindrance to sight. The Sith lord's mind quested, seeking strands of both dark and light, seeking those of one or the other, seeking those of both.

It was so easy to see in the dark if one just stared away from the light, for drawn together opposites were. At the edge of light was the edge of shadow, each throwing the other into relief. It was not a pinpoint sharp edge, though well defined: light bled into dark and dark into light, a blending that meant there was no true demarcation between the two, just an arbitrary boundary.

The refusal to recognize this would be the Jedi Order's downfall.

Theirs was a world of opposites, so they resolutely stared into the light and were thus easily blinded by the dark, so they cast out any with the merest hint of shadows rather than illuminate the dark with light.

Not the Sith; they sought out those of shadows, even sometimes those of just light. The greatest challenge offered the greatest reward: to dive into the light no matter how repugnant, to prey on the righteous and corrupt one of purity to depravity.

The seduction of the soul – oh, that exceeded any seduction of the flesh that a Sith might occasionally indulge in, bodies to be used and discarded, the detritus of lust that sought a diversion from souls. Few indeed took lovers, whether for a night or more, for the momentary pleasure could never measure up to a once gentle soul cowering under the lash of cruelty and torment; the moment that soul burst forth in rage and hate to leave the master's very being aquiver with delight and completion as pleasures of the flesh never could.

Who would it be, who would be the new champion of dark now that Maul had so ignominiously fallen – to an intended sacrificial pawn, no less, a mere Jedi apprentice?

He had had hopes – oh, not high hopes, admittedly, that disillusioned Jedi Master Dooku would warm the vacancy at his now-empty side. He would have gotten a few good years from the man but even as he had slipped towards the abyss of no return he had been hooked and allowed to slide no further by ties that had not been severed.

No, Dooku was neither bold enough nor really, useful enough, to pursue.

But there were others, some within and some without the Jedi temple. Yes, there was darkness within the halls of his enemies, just as there was light.

His senses crept out; prowled - hovered in the edges of the Force - a sensory tongue tasted the presence of those unguarded in sleep.

_Curious_…for there were several individuals there bound in shadows while yet aglow from within. Anyone of them could fall, might fall – or would fall. In time, one would.

It should be one of them. Who would it be?

Young Anakin Skywalker: the prophesied Chosen One who would bring balance, but only once he balanced himself? Corrupted innocence already, the boy was both selfish and giving, compassionate and hateful, fearful of change and greedy for affirmation. Grasping for love and attention, caught between nature and nurture, his allegiance would be won with no more effort than a promise of affection and soft words. A child and thus not much of a challenge, yet Sidious could not help but be drawn to this boy with the potential to be saint or devil, savior or destroyer.

Qui-Gon Jinn: master of the Living Force and so ignorant of his personal flaws, smugly certain he lived in the Force, its obedient servant? Blind to anything but the moment before him, heedless of the cost to those he valued? No sacrifice was too great to deny to his precious Living Force, to everything in the future, so assured was he that his actions here and now were all that mattered.

Oh, what a treasure Jinn could be to the dark – yet he might get far more sadistic pleasure by forcing the man into a realization of how his _tender and generous heart_ had so brutally betrayed one he loved as a son for the sake of another he loved equally as well. Such knowledge might well drive Jinn into his own personal darkness – and into the grasp of the Sith.

Not to be overlooked: Obi-Wan Kenobi, the vaunted "Sith-killer" thrust into shadows by the man he had trusted to guide him to the Light. No knight yet, he was vulnerable and powerful. He would die in retaliation for Maul's death or be rewarded with a place at the Sith's side, Sidious still could not decide which. There was untapped power there, if Kenobi dared access it. He might have been bound to the Light once but now he was bound to nothing. His vulnerability could be easily exploited by one who would befriend him. The once incorruptible was now vulnerable and infinitely valuable once he found his strength.

And another yet unknown: one bound to them to them all yet not one of them. This one fancied himself evil, a master of darkness. Unlike the others, this one was dark with shades of light. Arrogant and self-assured, a touch cruel, he might be harder to break than Skywalker or Kenobi yet easier, half way there already.

So many choices, so many delectable souls to caress and mold, to seduce and make compliant to his every wish…

…which one would he pursue first?

The words themselves scrolled by on the screen, but they replayed over and over in one mind.

…_Knight Talar died a few months later, died a few months later…_

The terrible words were engraved on Obi-Wan's heart. Some eight centuries before another Jedi – a knight – had suffered a traumatic severance of his bond while simultaneously facing other trauma. The only way he could find the Force's solace – was to return to it.

Death had been his solution. Obi-Wan stared at the screen, sick at heart. He understood all too well the terror and despair that must have consumed the knight, the struggle to find a light amidst the darkness. He had teetered at the edge, mind awash with pain until the warm wash of temporary oblivion – of Master Windu's mind block – had soothed the cry of a battered soul.

He had fallen – into the arms of the living, not into the arms of the Force – because someone had been there to catch him.

_Why me? Why not Knight Talar? _

He didn't realize he was resting his face in his hand or sucking in deep breaths until a firm but steady hand rested on his shoulder. "Are you in need of assistance, Padawan Kenobi?" It was Madame Jocasta Nu, firm-lipped and stern mistress of the Archives with a look of gentle concern on her face. She placed a palm over his forehead and frowned. "You are unwell."

Her eyes flickered to the open display and her lips pursed in displeasure. "You should not be studying these records. Have you been given leave to do so?"

"They were not marked restricted, Madame."

"They are not, but they cannot fail to distress you; had I known of your presence I would have locked them out of this terminal."

"You would not have had that right!" Obi-Wan was feeling quite queasy now. He was fast losing control and it seemed he could not still his tongue. _Why now, why now, why now_ his mind was gibbering, why this loss of control after days where it seemed his emotions were more in check?

"I'm sorry, Madame." He half-stumbled away, out of the Archives, away – just away from the damning knowledge. Away to the only peace he would find short of the Force itself …

… a small shadow fell over his face where he huddled, knees pulled up to his chest. Yoda squatted before him. "Peaceful the fountains are," he remarked. "Finding peace are you?"

"Master, who am I?" He ignored the question for his own.

The gentle face creased in a smile. "You are Obi-Wan Kenobi, a child of the Force who is lost and seeking his place. Always order, a pattern you seek and yet many times the pattern you see is not the pattern that is yet to be revealed. Decipher the patterns you must to find the correct pattern."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes; a tear slipped out anyway. "Knight Talar died."

"And you, Obi-Wan, did not." Yoda's finger pressed against Obi-Wan's chest, above his heart. "There is no why. This you know. In the end all return home to the Force. Someday too you will die. Someday will I as well. Perhaps then you will know why, if the Force wills it." A clawed finger brushed the drop of moisture from his cheek, moved upward and tapped his forehead next. "Your mind seeks answers, so I will give you one: you allowed Master Windu and I to anchor you while your strength you sought. You reached out and we reached back. Stayed connected to life if not the Force you did; in time, connect to it again you will. Believe you must; have faith you must."

"It's so hard, Master."

"Then all the more worthwhile the struggle will have been once you succeed. It is not in the struggle there is shame but in the failure to struggle. Straightforward the path is not, lost your footing and fallen on your behind you have. Now time to get up it is, hmm, and when you fall again, once again you stand up. A pattern you weave with every action you take and this pattern becomes your life. Weave a good pattern, young one, weave it well and never shall it unravel. Now, leave you to your weaving I will."

Yoda was nearly to the door when a soft query stopped him. "I don't know how to weave – will knitting work?"

"Hmm, I suppose that is an acceptable alternative," Yoda growled, turning to face the kneeling Jedi.

"Then I will seek lessons and follow whichever seems harder."

"Mock me, do you?" Yoda's eyes widened and his mouth tightened as his clawed hands clasped the gimer stick.

"I could never do so, Master." Obi-Wan felt a grin start to creep up from inside; he fought to keep it from surfacing.

"But tease me you do. Happy that makes you so allow this I do. For today only, you understand."

"Thank you, Master."

"Today only," Yoda admonished.

The grin finally surfaced. "Today only, Master," he agreed, bowing his head in acquiescence. Yoda stared at him, humphed, grumbled once and then tapped his way out of the Room of a Thousand Fountains mumbling about impudent padawans.

Said impudent padawan settled back on the grass - and stopped searching for answers.

_Let go – leave everything to the Force – just live the life you have_ had been implicit in Yoda's words. Living with regrets only crippled the soul. Obi-Wan knew his was battered enough that he didn't need to add to it; only find a way to live with it and eventually move past it.

So Obi-wan let go of his expectations for the future and sought to replace such with acceptance of his present and of that future as well, not an easy task without the Force's aid, but a necessary one. The mere thought of that vast strength made his stomach twist and his mind ache while paradoxically it made him determined to find his way back to it: the source of all comfort and the source of not inconsiderable pain.

Yoda had woken him to the realization that he himself was the only one who could make Obi-Wan Kenobi whole. His recovery was as much in his hands as that of the Force. He could take his losses and hide, or face those losses and strive to overcome them and become a different Obi-Wan than he had once been yet still Obi-Wan.

Still himself.

Accepting a challenge and finding a way to wrest it to his advantage. It was time to stop fighting _against_ something: he wanted to fight _for_ something.

Mace, to his credit, recognized the problem and saw a possible solution. It was rooted in the most basic of Jedi beliefs, that of service and community. Each member of the Order was expected to teach and pass on knowledge, to always be both teacher and learner throughout their lives. Obi-Wan, like all senior padawans, often spent time assisting the supervising masters in the crèche and in the classrooms. Unlike some, Obi-Wan had truly enjoyed such opportunities and the younglings were just as fond of him as he was of them. Those of age eight to ten were deemed old enough to behave and young enough to be safe.

So it was that Obi-Wan found himself tagging along – not yet by real choice, but given no choice – to one of the Initiate classes.

"Come, Obi-Wan, we're going to sit in on a class. Accompany me, if you will."

The protest died on his lips, even if the near panic did not fade from his eyes, for Obi-Wan would not deliberately defy Mace's strongly suggested "request."

He wondered at his reluctance while a part of him looked forward to seeing how the youngsters had progressed over the last few weeks. They were at an age where curiosity ran as strong as their joy and frustration at their control of the Force. Perhaps his trepidation was rooted in his need to be at his best when he clearly was not; to present himself as a good role model to this younger generation.

His only choice was to be the best he currently could be – or fail without an honest effort.

The two Jedi arrived shortly after the class had begun. The younglings had been coached not too show too much interest, and if an opportunity arose, not to ask too many questions or overwhelm the still healing young Jedi. Of course, being young, one or two forgot the prior admonition and excitedly gazed at their visitors. One awed voice whispered, soft, yet loud enough to carry, "It's him, the Sith-killer; the one who saved Master Jinn."

"Shhh," another youngling hissed. The one that had spoken blushed but continued to look at from under his lashes at the subject of his curiosity.

Mace glanced at the young man at his side; though few signs of distress were visible, Obi-Wan had swallowed hard and his step had faltered. "Steady now," he whispered.

With half-averted eyes and a soft flush on his cheeks, Obi-Wan headed for the furthest seat so he could sit huddled against the wall and began a series of calming breathing exercises. Mace sighed and glanced at the instructor, who caught his look and dipped her head in acknowledgement.

"Younglings, eyes," she softly called, drawing their bright gazes back to her. "Let's resume; do not be distracted by our guests."

A gentle touch on his arm seemed enough to steady him and taut fingers relaxed. Mace looked on approvingly; the boy had handled that quite well, though he wished he hadn't yet had to face such a blunt statement of what was not well phrased, yet little more than the truth of Naboo. At least with the younglings, there would be nothing but curiosity and Obi-Wan knew that instinctively, one could tell, by the relative ease with which he had dealt with it.

"Is that what they call me?" Obi-Wan asked quietly, his eyes fixed on his fingers. "A - a killer?"

Mace shifted uncomfortably. "Sith-killer is, I believe, the proper appellation and as it turns out, accurate. I do apologize; they were told to keep their tongues and thoughts to themselves, but seeing as how the younglings admire you -"

"They shouldn't," Obi-Wan was quick to reply. "I mean – "

"I know what you mean," Mace assured him. And he did. No Jedi liked to be lauded for another's death, even if necessary, even if in the defense of others. To younglings, however, killing in service of the Force was a different concept to grasp, having little to do with heroes or villains, only grim, inescapable necessity. They did not understand the emotional toll on a being forced to take the life of another, and there was a toll, even for Jedi. Especially for Jedi.

But at least most Jedi had the Force to release the grief and occasionally, anger at being forced to such a drastic step. Not so the young man beside him; forcibly reminded that it was at his hands another had died – even if a Sith, even if in duty.

A sharp nod indicated Obi-Wan understood what was not said and a slow breath accompanied the slight straightening of what had been drooping shoulders.

As he sat, arms tucked within his cloak, Obi-Wan's eyes followed the work out, an exercise using soft padded sticks that could do little damage when inexpertly wielded in small hands or paws. He slowly relaxed and his posture grew a bit straighter as no one stared or again remarked on his presence.

After a time he further uncoiled, eyes following the movements with quick interest, noting strengths and weaknesses, flawed footwork or too taut a grip.

Beside him, Mace nodded to himself. Obi-Wan was getting interested, despite his initial trepidation.

When his mouth quirked and he leaned forward as if to make a suggestion to a small initiate who was repeatedly knocked flat on his backside, Mace nodded at the instructor. She nodded back.

A quick gesture of her finger towards the unfortunate initiate had him immediately turning a hopeful face to the two Jedi, mere feet away.

"You should use your strengths to counteract his," Obi-Wan said, slipping to his knees and tentatively smiling at the boy. "Use your agility against his greater strength and reach."

Mace let out a slow breath.

Two pairs of hands, one small and one smaller, met: the young Jedi's hand gently closed over the younger Jedi's, adjusting his grip on the stick. The Force hummed in approval.

Mace let out a slow breath.

"Let me show you."

And for one giddy moment, noticed only by the Force, Mace Windu smiled.


	34. Sticks & Stones Can Break Bones

**Chapter 34. Sticks and Stones Can Break Bones**

"_He's_ out of the insane asylum," Anakin announced casually, walking into his quarters.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon reproved the words automatically

The boy just shrugged. "It's the truth, Master. The whole Temple knows he's not right in the head."

"I – wasn't aware of that bit of Temple gossip." He rubbed his brow. Thoughts of Obi-Wan were pushed aside when they surfaced – had been, ever since feeling the bright Force presence of his padawan – of the Chosen One, there on Tatooine. He hadn't cared to think of his then current padawan since the Council had so rebuffed him, and because of that, he had known but little of Obi-Wan in weeks.

"_He has no access to the Force," Mace said evenly. "Did you not know this? You would, had you cared to ask. He was, after all, your padawan at the time of his injury."_

_He had not known this. _

No, he had not cared to know too much. What he did care for was this boy in front of him – but perhaps, in not knowing much about the former padawan's current activities, he was neglecting the current one by not seeing how the former one affected him in ways both large and small.

A finger snaked up to rub his forehead. His head always ached when thoughts of Obi-Wan intruded, one reason of many he preferred not to.

"Has he said anything to you – hurt you?"

Anakin shook his head, the bright light of speculation within his eyes. "He didn't see me, don't worry, Master, he was leaving an initiate training class. He was with Master Windu and for once he looked sorta happy."

"Master Windu?" He couldn't restrain his surprise. Mace – happy?

"No – him. Uh, Master, you know he's staying with Master Windu, don't you? I think that's a real slap in the face to you – he's supposed to be your friend."

"Obi-Wan is staying with Mace Windu?" Qui-Gon passed a hand over his eyes. He had known that, hadn't he? Yes, he'd heard that, but hadn't believed it – hadn't wanted to believe it, had chosen not to. His face darkened. Mace _was_ supposed to be his friend, yet he was sheltering the boy who had failed him, who had betrayed his belief in him, and nearly shattered the confidence of Anakin?

How could Mace betray their friendship like that? Was the entire Order against him and Anakin as well? Why would they all side with Obi-Wan? Against their very salvation?

Oblivious to all this, Anakin continued blithely on, "Is he going to be wandering around the Temple now rather than hiding away and crying?" He grabbed a snack and sprawled over the couch.

"Feet, Padawan."

"Oh, Master." He sniffed and wiped a hand across eyes that miraculously spouted tears.

* * *

"Hello, _old_ friend."

The hurt and somewhat bitter words were somewhat of a surprise, but only because it had taken so long for them to be said.

"Good morning, Qui." Mace returned unperturbed. He continued down the hallway, Qui-Gon falling into unwilling step with him rather than bellowing his frustration for all to hear.

"You took his side, took him in and didn't even tell me."

"Obi-Wan? Someone had to take him in – he had no place to return to and he was not – is not even yet – ready to be on his own. It was no secret." The reply was as bland as the cafeteria food.

"Why you?"

Deftly sidestepping Qui-Gon's grab for his arm, Mace stopped and whirled to face his fellow Jedi. His voice was hard as he met the harsh demand with equal intensity. "You all but threw him out – and I was the first to step forward. We've been friends a long time, Qui, and he was your padawan once upon a time. By the Force, Qui, that boy meant the world to you once. Someday, I hope you thank me. He deserved far better from you and I hope you don't discard Anakin on the dump heap when something newer comes along."

"I would never do that." The words were low and immediate. The very softness heartened Mace.

"Why'd you do it, Qui-Gon?" He'd wanted to ask that question since Naboo and only now thought he might get an honest answer. Qui-Gon had never been a cruel man, only a sometimes tactless and heedless man, so mindlessly obedient to his _instincts_ that he lacked common sense or courtesy at times.

He was met with a lifeless shrug of shoulders, a weary regret, a whisper of his truth. "He stood in Anakin's path."

"So you destroyed him."

Bright blue eyes flashed upwards, full of denial and hurt at the accusation. "I set him on his path forward. You – the Council – chose to block it, not me."

"You destroyed him. You cast him aside, you denied his right to speak his mind, you faltered in your focus during battle and blamed him – to his face as you lay dying," Mace's voice lashed out; then softened, "and then you broke the bond as he was destroying his life to save yours. If you can still say you didn't destroy him – then I fear your grip on reality, my - old – friend."

For a moment, Mace thought he had gotten through to the stubborn Jedi master the sheer magnitude of his actions. Qui-Gon swallowed spasmodically and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, all pity fled. The eyes were bright now and determined.

"The Force insisted Anakin needed to be trained and I could not trust any of you to give him the proper respect he requires."

"Anakin is nearly ten and needs to earn the respect you seem to think he's entitled to with little basis so far. Obi-Wan was close to his knighting and has more than earned the Council's respect the last few years. You couldn't wait a year or two – let Anakin be with the initiates and catch up on the basics? You haven't been fair to either one."

He'd rested his hand on Qui-Gon's arm only to have it shaken off.

"A true Jedi cares for nothing but the will of the Force. Anakin is our salvation, Mace. That outranks every other consideration. Even Obi-Wan. Especially a disobedient and disrespectful padawan who knowingly hurt a small boy's feelings. He was jealous, Mace; selfish and self-centered and he let it lead him to the dark side, you know he fought and killed with anger and hate in his soul. Obi-Wan proved himself no Jedi. In the end, he was exactly what I suspected he was when I first turned him down as my padawan. I made a mistake then, not now."

The depth of the resentment and regret that colored his words momentarily made Mace speechless. He had been privy to much of Qui-Gon's fears and worries all those long years ago. Willful blindness born of a heart shattered by betrayal had twisted reality into a perverse and unjust perception long ago until the light of the Force had burned through the shuttered mind and illuminated the truth: the shadows that had lain within Obi-Wan Kenobi had been cast there by the master's indifference and fears.

What had cast those shadows once more?

"One day your words will come back to haunt you, Qui-Gon. I just hope you don't shatter as Obi-Wan was shattered."

"He has brought his fate upon himself. Do not blame me," Qui-Gon stared Mace in the eyes, "and do not blame Anakin. Anakin deserves far more in the way of respect and consideration than any Jedi has given him. I will fight for his right to dignity and respect, even if I have to go against the entire Order."

"All beings deserve dignity and respect, Qui-Gon. All. Including your former padawan."

The two Jedi locked eyes. Qui-Gon was the first to break it. He whirled and walked away, hands jammed within his sleeves.

Mace turned away, only to find Yoda blinking up at him.

"You heard?"

"Blind and deaf Qui-Gon has become, even to the Force, perhaps. Attached he is to the prophecy, a prophecy that misread and misunderstood it might well be. The future is set in a different direction now. How it ends up even I cannot foresee."

* * *

Anakin smirked as he sprawled on his bed; he'd managed to uncover more than a few unflattering facts about his master's failed apprentice – the one he had replaced. _Some_ Jedi had been more than happy to fill him in on the dubious exploits of almost-never-was Padawan Kenobi. In truth, the current golden boy of the Temple, the babied one, had been tarnished from the beginning.

Oh, he'd heard tales, of the fights and black eyes, the defiance of authority. Even Master Yoda, who all but doted on the anger management problem also known as Obi-Wan Kenobi had not been willing to take him as an apprentice.

The brat was now a crybaby, all but hiding from those whom he had once terrorized.

Now he was emerging from his isolation like an Ahliya mothwing from its cocoon, thinking himself reborn stronger, his tears and confusion shed into the past.

Well, that wasn't going to last long. The pitiful creature would be revealed for what he was – weak and pathetic.

Those eyes would be empty again, mere bowls to shed tears.

_Weepy-Wan_: he thought the name had a nice ring to it. Oh, yes, the boy who had struggled just to be accepted, the boy his master had finally taken pity on and trained – who had been cast aside without a moment's reflection – for him – would weep endless tears once more.

An unexpected moment of doubt assailed him. That haughty apprentice had reportedly saved his master. What if – nah, he couldn't have – perhaps…Anakin brightened as he realized the truth. Qui-Gon had saved himself. He had drawn on his weakling padawan's life essence to stabilize himself. In a weird kind of way, Obi-Wan had inadvertently helped – only he had been given all the credit.

Oh, that'd make Qui-Gon mad.

And he wasn't sure he wanted to make his master mad, risk being the bearer of bad tidings for what if his anger at being deceived took itself out on him? He had borne the consequences of anger more times than he cared to recall. He absently rubbed his arm as he shivered. No, he didn't yet know if Master Qui-Gon took his anger out on the messenger or the cause, or both. And what if one of the other Jedi got mad that he exposed _that one's_ lies?

But Master Qui-Gon needed to know.

So did he tell his master or not? Maybe if he told him, those lapses when he thought of Obi-Wan, doubted himself, would disappear. He knew, because of the bond they shared.

If only that was the only bond he shared. It was getting awfully crowded in there now.

* * *

Obi-Wan scratched his arm absently, a minor ache disappearing almost as soon as it manifested itself. He had done little than guide small hands and bodies in the twisting and thrusting of movement, into knowledge of a deadly dance that someday, when mastered, might well save a life.

It had certainly saved his on occasion.

Agility coupled with strength was a Jedi's greatest physical asset. Awareness of surroundings and his connection to the Force was his greatest mental asset. Together, in combination, a Jedi was nearly unstoppable except by overwhelming numbers.

But nearly was not never, and several colleagues had fallen in the last few years. It mattered little that he had not known them well. For all the wondrous blessings their connection to the Force brought, Jedi were not immune to accidents or incidents that could cut lives short. He had learned that bitter truth years ago.

And yet, when he could, he did all that he could to save life, not harm it.

And so, for all that the man had willingly set him aside, Obi-Wan had fought with everything and more at his disposal to save that man, selfishly fighting the Force for Qui-Gon's life. Had he fought so hard – and won – that the Force had retreated from him for exceeding his bounds?

Had it been a choice between the Force and Qui-Gon, a trial of his ultimate loyalty? Was that why the Force refused his touch?

He curled up in a ball, fighting to catch his breath. He had never meant to repudiate the Force, never! He had only sought to - he dropped his face into his hands and moaned once he realized -no matter what his intention had been, he had _commanded _the Force rather than ask its aid! He had made it a tool to his wishes, not a guide.

Only younglings too young to know better – or those sliding towards the dark did so.

_That_ was why the Force had forsaken him.

* * *

So this was the famed Jedi Council chamber. It was not in the main spire, as he had thought. Not that it mattered. Sunlight streamed in the high windows and created patterns of light and shadow on the beautifully tiled floor. A circular room with a circle of Jedi masters, how befitting an Order that prided itself on balance and equality, yet like the patterns on the floor, was other than it seemed. The Order had its own hierarchy like any organization, at its head the twelve Masters and an ever widening circle down the ranks mirroring that the of the Republic in some ways.

He, the sole head of the Republic; yet he, the executive branch was equal to the multitudes that made up the Senate. Two layers of government sharing power, and in that, more in balance, more equitable, than this Order.

An interesting thought, one he kept hidden from his hosts for there was no point in antagonizing them.

"My dear Master Yoda," Palpatine inclined his head, a cheery smile on his face. "So kind of you, I'm sure, to welcome the new Chancellor to a place so few are privileged to enter."

Yoda gargled lightly in his throat. "Friends are welcome here, Chancellor, always, but our home the Temple is, not a public edifice or a monument to the Force. We do not encourage those not of the Order to visit, but such is never forbidden."

Totally understandable, of course, and one reason the lovely Master Billaba would be his guide. Masters Yoda and Windu were regretfully too occupied with duties to play escort, and though he had been granted permission to visit those whom he had come to see, it seemed he was not going to be allowed to freely roam. He had not expected such, either.

"My dear." With a smile, Palpatine offered his arm. With perfect aplomb, the Jedi master accepted as if this was a common occurrence, with a warm smile reflected in her deep brown eyes. Beautiful eyes full of life and humor in an otherwise nondescript body, though not an unpleasant one. Quite the contrary. It was a body made for a man's caress, a body hiding a spirit with passion and feelings.

A small tingle of anticipation ran up his nerves. Perhaps if he cultivated the acquaintance, he might actually have a chance to find out if the Jedi were truly celibate or not. It had been quite a while since he had allowed his human nature a purely carnal outlet.

After all, somewhere buried deep within, he was a man as much as a politician, even if he rarely allowed that man much latitude. A Jedi would keep any sexual liaison discrete; any "affair" would remain private, out of the public eye, away from scandal.

Yes, a closer relationship with the Jedi could be quite beneficial. Keep your enemies close, and your friends closer.

There might be _both_ profit and pleasure in establishing closer _relations_ with a Jedi. While it wouldn't do for the citizens to think the politicians and the Jedi were in bed together, such might actually be the best thing for the Republic – at least were it _this _politician and _this_ lovely Jedi.


	35. The Finer Things in Life

**Chapter 35.** **The Finer Things in Life**

Palpatine was first and foremost a politician, which in turn translated into an opportunist. Always open discourse with pleasantries was a diplomat's rule number one.

"Your Temple is truly magnificent." _And wasted on those who dare not appreciate the finer things in life, eschewing such things as "attachments" or "possessions,"_ Palpatine added under his breath as he and Master Billaba exited the lift into the Grand Concourse. It was largely empty; the few Jedi they passed only serving to reinforce his opinion that they were visually and esthetically a dull lot: their simple and oh-so-neutral clothing of brown and tan so vividly _dull_ amidst such opulence.

As he understood it, the Jedi sought and found richness only within their inner lives, within the Force and it alone.

The Jedi were truly blind or self-deluded, then. This was far from a humble "home" as Master Yoda had put it.

Then again, he had yet to see the truly private places within the Temple. There had been a bit of a twinkle within the aged Yoda's eyes, a private joke as it were, as if he well knew the perceptions of visitors to the Temple.

And he had to remember it was a Temple as much as a home. Even his own new offices, redecorated to his liking, consisted of a formal ceremonial office and a smaller, private one. The Jedi Order, the Guardians of Justice in both name and practice, had both a public and private face, too, as he was fast learning.

So he understood now both the twinkle in Yoda's eyes and the truth.

_This_ was the public face of the Order, the ceremonial face.

So Palpatine was used to ostentatious. As a politician, he could not help it and now, as Chancellor, he could not avoid it. Those of the elite, the chosen, used the trappings of formality as a cloak, a shroud to awe and humble so called "lesser beings" and had since the dawn of time. _Trust us_, it proclaimed, _let those of us most capable make decisions on your behalf. _

It was a necessary deception in many ways, but one that also served to reassure the governed, that the government was not impoverished or shabby, but an inspiration and ode to success.

So the finery of his robes, the luxuriousness of his office, the grandeur of the Senate, all served a purpose.

He found it not surprising that the Jedi Order was not immune to such deceptions, if one wished to portray it in such terms. In their own way, these servants of the Force, these beings thought to be exalted above mere mortals though they shared the same commonality of the Force – exalted by degree and training, not wisdom alone.

"Absolutely magnificent," he repeated, once more. Austere, grand and yet inviting, with walls and statuary of cold stone burnished warm by subdued natural light from above, a wide corridor of neither deep shadow or harsh light.

A Temple indeed.

_Too grand and formal an edifice for servants of the Force_. No hint of his disdain touched the Chancellor's lips. In a small way he even understood. Formality and opulence were expected of the pillars of the elite, and no mistake about it, the Jedi Order was held in that regard by many planets of the Republic, if not always the ordinary citizen.

Charlatans and magicians, many thought them; mythical beings, many others. Servants of the Senate in practice, servants to the Force in their mind. The Jedi walked a tightrope of expectations and duty, much like humble servants of the people such as himself.

And yes, formality

For an Order that eschewed possessions for its members it was a monument built by wealth. Palpatine wondered if residential accommodations were as large and ornate, or the opposite, meager cells with a flat pad where the acolytes of a rich religion lived simply amidst splendor, beggars amongst the rich.

Perhaps soon he would find out.

Pacing slowly through the hallways, Palpatine bent a gentle smile down upon his companion.

* * *

Palpatine was a bit of a charmer, Depa had to admit, eyes attentive and full devotion given to his companion. Whether that was genuine, or the mask of a politician she had yet to discover, for it was a bit odd that someone could be so focused on another person in such an unfamiliar environment. Most visitors, especially first time ones, tended to gape and gaze, no matter how well guarded the expression might be.

Palpatine showed little of the casual curiosity she had grown to expect.

Still, he was no ordinary politician, it was clear. He had come in person to Naboo, not surprisingly, since his home planet's occupation had catapulted him into the Chancellor's office, but now he had come in person to the Temple as well to inquire of those who had been partially responsible for freeing Naboo.

It was a gesture much appreciated, even if a mere gesture. If genuine, well, Depa wondered how long it might be until the office made of him a ceremonial instrument of government with little contact with those whom he led.

Still, he exuded a certain charm of manner that reminded her much of the former Chancellor, Finis Valorum. Like him, Palpatine might actively seek to be not too removed from those whom he represented.

Valorum had remained a real gentleman in the sometimes brutal world of politics.

He had been a close personal friend of Qui-Gon Jinn for years and over time the friendship between the Jedi and the politician had expanded to include a number of other Jedi. She herself was one, though the Jedi were far removed from Valorum's usual and more public social circle - that which largely revolved around politics.

None knew the distinguished widower often seen in the company of beautiful and powerful women much preferred quiet evenings alone with friends. Depa had been sharing some of them off and one for a year or so now.

The relationship had served them both well, for there was no pretense and no awkwardness to navigate around.

"So Master Billaba," Palpatine's voice brought her attention now wholly back on him, "now that the formalities are out of the way, tell me, just how are your three Jedi doing now that the Battle of Naboo is some few weeks behind us – our dear Master Jinn," he clucked sadly, "nearly paid with his life for saving my planet."

* * *

A small grimace passed over her face, though Palpatine noticed it. One did not need to be a Jedi to read others; he had perfected the art of reading the gestures and body language of a number of species over his years in politics. He had no qualms against using any tools at his disposal to advance his agenda to consolidate and secure the Republic.

"Master Jinn is healed and training his new padawan."

"Splendid! And how is young Anakin doing – such a prodigy must be near to being knighted by now." As expected, his chuckle and the twinkle he was so adept at putting into his eyes almost eased the slight tension he felt within the Jedi master.

"Hardly so." Her answering smile faded into a small frown. "He has had trouble fitting in for various reasons."

It took little coaxing to pull a few details of young Skywalker's "difficulties" out of her. It was all too apparently clear that the Jedi master was fond of all the youngsters in the Temple; she greeted not just the adults, but the various younglings they passed by name. She kept her speculations to herself – rightly so – but Palpatine had a few ideas of his own, some based on observation of the boy and his new master on Naboo.

The Jedi master apparently felt beleaguered and unsupported by his colleagues and no doubt guarded and defended his young charge a tad more vociferously than was wise, further alienating the newcomer.

Well, Master Jinn was a right obstinate Jedi, Palpatine had already observed.

It was perfectly clear the Council member wished young Anakin had found his spot by now. All had known the boy would have trouble adapting – well, all but Master Jinn himself, and he, no doubt, only exacerbated the problem. So the problem was quite clear to the politician.

Anakin felt like an outsider.

The poor boy; unwanted and unloved except by an absent mother. No doubt even such Jedi as the one at his side, clearly concerned with his well being, were indistinguishable in his mind from the others who didn't care or didn't care to care.

He only had Master Jinn – and Chancellor Palpatine, if had had any say in the matter. The boy was a planetary hero – his birth planet's hero – and stepping into a semi-parental role was the least he could do for the boy. It was the only thing he could do, and the right thing as well.

It was a shame that he could not free the boy's mother. To interfere, on a non-Republic planet, would bring political repercussions he shuddered to imagine.

He had fought too hard to have the chance to stabilize the Republic and ensure peace and prosperity to risk all on the welfare of one woman.

Politics, he deemed not for the first time, was not for the weak or timid.

* * *

"Wow, wasn't that great? The Chancellor came just to see us!" Anakin was still excited, bursting with energy as the doors of the small conference room closed behind the Chancellor. Qui-Gon looked on indulgently. It wasn't often the boy was praised, though Palpatine's _effusiveness_ was somewhat unexpected.

Anakin was the instrument of the Force's will and any honor should be divided between it and its vessel, even as the praise he himself had received had been accepted and discarded as it should.

All that he had done was in response to its will.

_All?_ a small voice whispered.

"I wonder if the Chancellor is going to see _him_," Anakin suddenly burst out, a scowl on his face.

"_He_ has a name," Qui-Gon said out of habit, his attention focused more on Anakin's movements than his words.

"You never speak it."

Once his brain caught up with the words, he shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, no, I guess I don't," he agreed. And why not – the voicing of a name changed nothing. _Obi-Wan_. As that name crossed his mind, he remembered why. It hurt. It brought back memories of what he wished to forget and memories he once thought he never wished to forget.

It was easier to forget when one forgot the name as well.

* * *

Obi-Wan still sat, fingers splayed across his face. He hadn't wanted those memories to rise up and confront him with the past he was working so hard to put behind him.

_Naboo_.

He wanted to curse the name, but would not allow himself. Naboo had not hurt him; it had merely been the place where he had been hurt. It was the place of his greatest triumph – though he hated to think that killing another being, even a Sith deserved to be called a triumph – and his greatest defeat.

"_Your selfless actions were those of a hero_."

His actions were those of duty.

"_Your determination to save Master Jinn was and is a credit to your training_."

His actions were selfish. He didn't want to lose his master. He had, anyway.

"_Your skills were those of a knight while you were yet a padawan._"

His actions were guided by the Force except for that one terrible lapse.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Obi-Wan blew out the memories. The Chancellor meant well, but it would have been much better had he not come at all, bearing presents of soft words and gentle praise.

It was only while brushing his hand over his chin that he noticed the trembling in his hands had returned.

That night the nightmares returned.


	36. The Shadow of the Dark

.

**Chapter 36. The Shadow of the Dark **

Within the shadows, one watched and mourned an opportunity lost. It had been such an unexpected temptation and so shortly after his infiltration of the Temple.

Murder the Chancellor and be sure Obi-Wan Kenobi took the blame. Watch the poor boy beg that the truth be heard even as the noose tightened around his slender neck. Watch the light drain from those damn changeable eyes and the Force writhe as an innocent murderer paid the price for another's crime.

But it was an idea born of an opportunity and thwarted by circumstance. He had heard enough and seen enough to know Kenobi carried no lightsaber and for all intents and purposes could not summon the Force. The Chancellor had been escorted around the Temple and even in his meeting with Kenobi, had been inaccessible to mere physical assault.

Such a shame it was, though, so tempting…for the penalty for treason was death. Who would have stood for Justice? Yoda? Windu?

From what he gathered, Jinn would probably not mind.

The boy, Skywalker, the one for which he had come, would be hard to restrain.

Whatever the manner of his death would have been – hanging, decapitation, or firing squad - Kenobi would at last be dead and at the hand of his brethren beside. There would be no one to mourn his miserable existence once it ceased to be. But there were other ways to achieve revenge, other ways to break the man he blamed for taking the life he should have had.

That time would be soon.

After all these years, the snot-nosed brat's time was drawing near.

And there was nothing the one he worked for could do about it, for he himself meant to use Kenobi, albeit against Jinn, then toss both men away as refuse of the Force. Gods, half the known universe hated Kenobi. Despite orders to merely torment but leave the apprentice alive until further notice, he meant to be the one to remove him from this life and send him to the eternal torment of the Force's dark soul.

So the cowled figure, hidden within shadows, grinned and padded away to his lair, content to watch and wait. The most hazardous part was now behind him. Insinuating himself into the Temple had been as ridiculously easy as ever. "Safe" within the Force, the Jedi never dreamed that safety was an illusion.

It wouldn't be long before they discovered different. The shadows were creeping ever closer; one day soon they would crawl over one and claim him – for eternity.

* * *

"_No, don't hurt Iego, don't," Anakin shrieked. But the cloaked man came closer, talons spread._

"_Rid yourself of this weakness, boy. Break all that chains you and you will be free."_

"_Free?" His tear-stained face looked at the seldt-pup, then up to the man's hooded face. Inside two burning eyes stared back. Black as the deepest ebony, the thickness of night on a planet far from the comforting twinkling of stars that graced the galaxy's core, the weight of having the name "slave" define one's life, all that and more were in those eyes._

"_Roam the stars, boy."_

_Anakin ached to be there, surrounded by the light, known only as Anakin Skywalker, son of Shmi, belonging to no one else._

"_You can't reach for the stars with your arms full."_

_A whimper escaped his lips. Shivering desperately, he tried to back away, his grip tightening. The voice and the taloned hands followed. _

"_You can be the Chosen One."_

"_I want – I want to be me."_

_The shadow loomed above him. "You will learn the power of life and death, but how can you learn to give life if you do not take it?"_

_Under his hands, the pup whimpered._

_Then there was only silence. The cowled man smiled; the broken-hearted boy – wept._

_

* * *

_

He stood in a bleak wasteland, a worn cloak billowing around him in the frigid air. He was alone under a shadow-clouded sky, a storm not far off.

"_This is your destiny." The words, a memory, rushed through him as he blinked against the stinging wind. "You will farm this land. Plow and till it, raise crops to feed those who need sustenance to live. You will not partake of the bounty."_

"_Not even a miracle would bring crops without seeds, a harvest without tools, from this land." He spoke quietly and with utter certainty. _

"_You speak as if I speak of food; I speak of another type of crop, young fool. You will plant souls here and reap scorn and disdain. You will continue to do so until your own has been drained from your body."_

"_I do not wish to lose my soul."_

"_You already have. Look around you. This is the Plain of Damnation where the fallen molder and decay. No one comes here unless invited and by choice."_

"_I made no choice." His voice was steady. _

"_But you did. You chose to dishonor your training and your master; you chose revenge."_

"_I chose – the Force and stepped away from that path."_

_Cackling laughter accompanied the crash of thunder. "There is no stepping away once one has set foot on it. A choice made in ignorance and regretted is still a choice already made."_

_A bolt of lightning struck the ground not far away, cracking the soil. _

"_Summon the lightning to prepare the ground for soon you will be planting the first of the souls you will steal."_

"_I refuse."_

"_You have no choice, my disciple. You are trapped in a future you created for yourself."_

_And the world went dark._

* * *

Had the Council not heard one word he had said?

"He is dangerous," he had warned them.

"He is to be knighted," they had said in return.

He was used to the Council disregarding his insights and dismissing his instincts. But this was beyond indignation; this was humiliation.

"A great Jedi Obi-Wan has become and in no small part because of your guidance. To have killed a Sith while yet a padawan – why, we're wondering if the prophecy was misunderstood; perhaps Obi-Wan is the Chosen one."

Now the Council was downright insulting. Anakin was the Chosen One: he had the highest midichlorian count ever recorded; he had almost single-handedly saved Naboo _and _without any training, thank you very much; and, he was conceived of the Force.

"You can't be serious: he fought in anger and fear! He twisted the Force to selfish ends, he-"

"To save your life," Mace observed dryly. "We noticed the Force responded as well; it seemed to have no objections to his actions."

"A Jedi does not command the Force, surely you know that! It is not a tool but a guide and a Jedi who feels it is acceptable to use and twist the Force to his own ends is no Jedi at all and in fact is a danger. I tell you Obi-Wan's actions are unacceptable and at the minimum worthy of censure. The fact that I survived is of no matter."

"Many of us would disagree with that assessment. You are a valued member of this Order."

"So any means, any method is now considered acceptable? Survival trumps intentions? Success trumps methods?"

"Get a grip on yourself, Master Qui-Gon," Mace snapped. "Unlike you, this Council has looked at the entire picture rather than focusing on just one small aspect. Your padawan –"

"Former!" he snapped.

"-your former padawan faced in real life a trial we could not have dreamed up for him. He confronted the dark –"

"he was consumed by it –"

"-he moved past it –"

"-he embraced it –"

"-he rejected it –"

"-he killed in revenge for my death," he thundered at the twelve moronic dunderheads before him. "He _murdered_ the Sith, for killing in anger and fear is MURDER!"

The accusation rang in the suddenly still air. Even the Force seemed to hold its breath lest it tip the balance. Chest heaving, Qui-Gon desperately tried to make the Council see the monster that Obi-Wan had become, feel the darkness that now lurked behind the boyish façade. He knew, oh, how he knew how rotten the core was because – because he had cast him aside for cause. With reason. He knew what he was doing.

He would not make any of this up; there was a reason…because there just had to be.

Because the Force wouldn't lie to him.

It wouldn't let him destroy what had once been precious to him, not without a reason.

"You are deluded, Master Jinn…deluded – deluded – deluded," eleven Councilors sing-songed their agreement in turns.

"Honor him we will." Yoda's gravelly voice rose in alto counterpoint.

"You dishonor yourselves! Revered masters, it is you who are deluded," he argued.

Mace's smile only dimmed a bit. "You may shut up anytime now, Master Jinn. We've agreed that Obi-Wan shall be immediately knighted and if you don't like it, you may honor challenge him to a duel to the death."

"Once he has disposed of you, then he can be promoted to Master in recognition of his deeds," Ki-Adi-Mundi threw in, much to the delighted agreement of the twelve fools – that is to say, the Jedi Council. Qui-Gon only stared, aghast. This was madness – this was insane – this was – was, well whatever it was, it was wrong. Wrong!

"Let's create a seat for him on the Council," Master Gallia proposed.

"Let's abdicate and let him _be_ the Council!"

"Are you all nuts? You are all under his influence – he has deceived you. You sign your own death warrants; you must see this!" Hands on his lips, he stood tall, one man against the insanity. Light shone upon him, rimming his body, proof positive that the Force was indeed with him. As the light strengthened about him, it slipped further and further from those he faced.

Darkness spread like a ripple from a stone thrown into still waters, emanating from _him_ – the one he had once called "padawan." Now he only called him "betrayer."

"Cast out the darkness before it consumes you," he pleaded.

"_Truer words were never spoken. Cast him out," Yoda cackled. Twelve pairs of hands rose and an invisible Force slammed Qui-Gon out of the chambers and deposited him on his backside. "Cast out the darkness is…party time it is, break out the booze we shall!"_

With a jolt, Qui-Gon was upright and breathing out his shock and dismay. He looked around and fell back against his pillow. That last vision of Yoda whipping off his robe and whirling it around his head in mad celebration while Mace danced a reel with Yareel Poof and Adi Gallia sat on Oppo Rancisis's lap had brought on a headache worse than any he had ever had in his entire life.

Not to mention the disturbing sight of Chancellor Palpatine plying Anakin with sweet fruits in the anteroom while the Sith killed on Naboo serenaded them with a ballad. Not even the night following his knighting ceremony and subsequent celebration had been as full of disturbing images.

And what scared him more than the dream was the knowledge that not all of it was a dream; some of it was grounded in reality.

Obi-Wan Kenobi _had_ raged against Qui-Gon Jinn's death, _had_ slain the one responsible and _had _not been admonished, censured, or expelled by the Council but had instead been protected and sheltered by the very head of that Council.

And as much as he might wish it were so, this temporary "custodial arrangement" was not remotely akin to protective custody as it should be for a fallen Jedi or even just one trembling on the edge.

_Mace really does not even care that Obi-Wan touched the dark! Surely he must know the truth. _

To say Qui-Gon was unsettled would be a bit of an understatement. Qui-Gon could not believe Mace's insinuations and words. Worse, how dared he risk the younglings? If Obi-Wan was as unstable as he feared, as Anakin insisted it was increasingly being whispered around the Temple, Mace was taking a fearful risk.

Why wasn't there anyone who would listen to his doubts and suspicions with an open mind? Someone like – he clapped his forehead and groaned – yes, Master Lilebeth de Nichoise was due back at the Temple a week ago but had been delayed and was now expected – yesterday. Late; perhaps Ni'sha hadn't yet had time to report to the Council and settle in and contact her friends.

Unlike the rest of the Temple who seemed to be under his former padawan's spell, Ni'sha had never been all that fond of Obi-Wan. She'd admitted it was simply incompatible personalities; she did not dislike Obi-Wan but she did not particularly like him either.

_Cheeky little Sith_ she'd muttered a time or time when Obi-Wan had "forgotten his place." Such times were the same as when Qui-Gon had forgotten his role as master, when the two had found relief from stress with jokes and taunts.

"_Ah, your life is in my hands now, Master." Obi-Wan had snatched Qui-Gon's lightsaber during a saber practice and danced around, chortling. "Attention to the moment lacking, master mine?"_

_Just as Qui-Gon had attempted to physically wrestle his padawan free of his ill-gotten prize, the lightsaber had been called to the hand of another._

_Mortified, Obi-Wan had stood still as Ni'sha lectured him on "frivolous use of the Force," all the while tapping Qui-Gon's lightsaber against her thigh in her agitation. He'd been twice as mortified when the lightsaber had sailed from Ni'sha's hand to Master Yoda's. _

"_Your own attention lacking it is while you lecture the padawan," he had said, handing the lightsaber back to Qui-Gon. "Having fun with his master he was. Encourage this I do."_

_It was a gentle reprimand that expected no answer and received none. _

_Ni'sha had bowed, a spot of color burning in her cheeks, he remembered, while his poor padawan stared at the floor, a slight tremble in his fingers the only sign of his discomfiture. As for himself: he had been shocked into silence the whole time, not even intervening as his friend harangued his apprentice. He could only be grateful that Yoda had done what he had not: put an end to it._

_He hadn't even reassured the boy that he had done no wrong, merely laid a hand on his shoulder and suggest he leave to work on a class assignment he had been given recently. _

"_Yes, Master. Forgive me, Master de Nichoise." The words had been formal – and the last the youth spoke that day. _

Qui-Gon sighed. He had really been quite disgruntled with Ni'sha; her sharp rebuke had been excessive to the not-really-an-infraction that Obi-Wan had committed in a playful moment and really, one all but encouraged by his master. Yet he had allowed her behavior to pass without comment.

Why?

Unconscious recognition of what he saw now in hindsight? Because there had been an honest kernel of truth in her words. Misuse of the Force was a serious matter, whether casual or intentional; its wanton use in the pursuit of frivolity and mirth was borderline disrespectful and rightly reprimanded.

A serious lesson in the unorthodox use of the Force while fighting had devolved into mischief and merriment. Ni'sha had seen past his apprentice's gasps of laughter and put a stop to it before it went too far.

Her ability to see past the obvious was what he needed now, to have her confirm or dispute his fears and suspicions about that same padawan. Of all the Jedi he knew, she was the least likely to be swayed by personal bias, whether for or against his truth – or Obi-Wan's.


	37. Plots Within Plots

**Chapter 37. Plots Within Plots**

"Curse you," he grumbled and winced as a speeder buzzed past his office window, its engine in need of a tune up. Its shrill screech sent tingles up his nerves, and not the kind of tingles he was used to seeking out. He threw out a hand, barely noticing as it wavered and took a nose dive as he swiveled to take the incoming com call.

His face darkened. _Ah_, it was about time he heard from him. If the young man wasn't so useful for the jobs he didn't have time to do himself, he would be quite miffed. And his employees knew well how they suffered when he was miffed.

"Are you sure this call can't be traced?" Of course it couldn't, but he snapped it anyway. It didn't pay to assume in his non-orthodox business dealings.

"Yeah."

He could just imagine the smirk on his operative's face.

"Listen, I'm that good and nothing's changed here that I could detect. They're so secure in their safety that they don't monitor internal or external communications."

"You'd best be sure of that." Involuntarily, his fingers clenched at the cockiness he had never quite trained out of the boy. He trusted him with as much as he dared, but he dared little when it came to his own safety and well being. You only had one go round at life, and he planned his to be a long and prosperous one.

"Hey, it's my neck if I'm caught, not just yours. Listen, boss, I could walk right amongst them with my hood up and they would never know."

"You're that sure you can hide your Force presence? What if you ran into Windu or Yoda?"

"You taught me!"

"Oh, right." He smirked in turn, knowing he couldn't argue with that. He had taken the then bitter and angry boy under his wing years ago, molded him and taught him. He was almost a son, his young trainee and potential successor depending on how current events played out. There were, of course, safeguards to prevent the apprentice from aspiring too high, too soon, for he was a crafty son of a Sith and not at all averse to lining his pockets at his boss's expense.

Leaning back in his seat, he carefully lit a cigerello and took a deep inhale. Almost as an afterthought, he twisted around, stood, and peered through the window. Hmm, evidently that pilot was good; that speeder he had swatted away hadn't crashed after all. No matter. It had assaulted his ears; he had assaulted it in return. Debris and mayhem were all well and good, but not required on a daily basis.

No, honor was satisfied and his plans were coming to fruition.

"Boss? You there?"

Maybe he should celebrate, call up that red-headed woman whose wits were in direct opposite proportion to her impressive bosom, take her to dinner and a show, and then take her to bed. He appreciated a nice little tumble, willing or not, though willing was better. Seduction offered the largest payoff…he loved the stalk and then the pounce; loved it when the prey willingly offered up her flesh for his satisfaction and loved it when he walked away once he'd gnawed his fill. In some dim recess of his mind, he wondered how many by blows he'd left behind - the maiden now mother to a child or the married woman explaining to a lackluster husband how she came to be pregnant.

His heart belonged to just one unattainable woman, she of a station far beneath him and in virtue far above him. But the rest of him was freely shared with whomever he pleased.

And tonight, yes, tonight might be a good night to share his charms with another.

Mereinda was ripe for the plucking, the _wine and dine_ so artfully done. If she pleased him, he would allow her to persuade him to spend the night in her arms. If she satisfied him, he'd give her a bauble or two before pleading business necessity as a reason to leave her mourning his absence from her warm bed. If she neither pleased nor satisfied him, he could always drop her off at his least favorite pleasure palace – they were always happy to accept his cast offs for the less picky clients.

"BB!" Normally he hated diminutive's. Cutesy. Childish. But "BB" had stuck. Boss's boy. In more ways than one, when he wanted something different. BB had resisted at first, but after his first taste, he now never minded.

"Boss?" The voice sounded wary now.

"Just seeing if you're paying attention." His boots thumped on the rare Afranian wood of his desk, unique in all the galaxy, as he leaned back in his seat. "All right, you're safely in the Temple. The little spawn is thriving, I hope."

"Jinn dotes on him."

"He should. I went to a lot of pain to assure myself of that and believe me, I'm no happier about how I'm accomplishing that then he would be, if he knew. I do believe our self-congratulatory and so very sanctimonious very calm Jedi master would rip around the galaxy like Windu if he ever lost control of Vaapad had he the faintest clue someone was digging into the blackest recesses of his primitive mind and hauling those fine dark instincts to the forefront where they are so inappropriately being expressed."

"The boy seems quite happy to be Qui-Gon's padawan."

His eyes narrowed. There was a hint of malicious glee bubbling underneath the words. Stab, twist, repeat. Well, he wouldn't be baited. If there was one thing he had learned from dealing with the Jedi, it was the advisability of never acting on pure emotion. He who rushed headlong into danger often lost that with which he led – as nearly had dear old Jinn on Naboo.

"He had his instructions and his warnings. He knows the price of disobedience is his mother. He's already seen me with her and of course totally misunderstood what he saw." He grinned. "Ever walk in on your parents getting busy – oh, right, you wouldn't have. If you were too young to understand, you might think the gyrations and cries were torturous rather than pleasurable. I made her whimper all right; the boy'll never forget that."

The two shared a conspiratorial grin, though they were on voice mode only. BB had free access to his favorite pleasure palace – the one he in fact owned – and he knew all about his predilections and quirks. The boy had no finesse and liked it rough. The girls didn't. They never complained, though, they had it far better than most pleasure workers and they knew it.

"You goin' back soon for some more; think she'll greet you with open arms and spread -"

"Shut the Sith up!" He was suddenly furious. "Where I go and when is none of your business let alone what I do or who I do it with unless I tell you it's your business, BB."

There was silence at the other end of the comlink. BB knew he had gone too far; there was a dark satisfaction in knowing his heavy breaths as he struggled to regain control of his temper had no trouble transmitting through the link.

"Uh, boss?" BB's voice was pitched a tad bit higher, came a bit faster. "I thought you'd like to know Chancellor Palpatine visited the Temple today to check on 'the heroes of Naboo'." He giggled.

Force, how he hated that giggle. Grown men shouldn't giggle. It wasn't manly. Only the insane giggled – and BB.

"Yes?" His voice warned that he wanted a simple recitation of facts. He glanced at his wrist chrono.

"You should have heard him with Jinn and the boy. Young Skywalker was preening like your favorite, ah, like a peafowl with twenty females tailing after him hoping for his favors. Both of them were lapping it up. Jinn is more convinced than ever that the boy is what he said he was."

"He is." He allowed himself a small smile. Delusions had merely been a precursor to happenstance and the Force double-twisted in its jokes. "What of the apprentice, Kenobi?"

He traced a lazy circle on his desk; again, his finger nearly completing a full revolution before twitching into the air, waiting for the words that would soon explode from the untapped volcano that simmered beneath BB's so-called heart.

A low growl came through the com link.

"Now, now, BB, set aside your personal feelings. Both of us wish him nothing but ill will, but our focus is Jinn, remember."

Tight with revulsion, a sneer no doubt twisting that pale face, the words came. "The sniveling coward has been coaxed out of hiding and has been assisting in some youngling classes and doing odd things here and there. Windu's apparently gotten tired of him sitting around and blowing his nose into his sleeves all day long. You should have heard Jinn lay into him for letting Kenobi stay with him in his quarters."

"Windu? He's been looked after by Windu?" That was unexpected. A senior Council member focusing personal attention on a discarded padawan? Yoda, perhaps he could see. The old Jedi had always had a weak spot for Kenobi, it was well known.

But Windu?

And Jinn didn't like it one bit! Well, well, well. Of course, the two were thick outside of Council; it probably stabbed him right in his pride to have his friend succor his castoff padawan.

"Windu," BB confirmed. His voice thick with delighted malice he continued on, "And did the Chancellor inadvertently stick a vibroshiv in his ribs - talking about what a wonderful team Jinn and Kenobi were, how their reputation was so well deserved and he just knew how close the two of them would remain once Kenobi was knighted. Then he just has to add how proud Jinn must be of him for killing a Sith and saving his master from certain death all while just a padawan – Kenobi was growing paler and paler – I was peering through a vent, dusty horrible places by the way – and I tell you, Palpatine could not have done a better job of just about destroying Kenobi if he'd been trying." Absolute glee infused the words.

"How destroyed?"

His voice was sharp. Kenobi was supposed to help in Jinn's destruction, not be destroyed himself, at least not yet. Events on Naboo had actually played into his hands; he was able to use the padawan's "affliction" and tweak Jinn's deeply buried conscience. One day the conflict between his actions and his horror at those actions would twist Jinn's guts into a realization of just how cruel and pitiful a man he had allowed himself to be twisted into becoming.

Jinn's pride and arrogance would be his downfall.

In many respects he was a kind man, even a decent man, but when he held to his unshakable conviction that the Force had guided him upon a certain path, the toes he would trod in its so-called service meant nothing to him – cause not for regret, sorrow or compassion. When his task was complete, regardless of outcome, he twisted his arm to pat his own back and claimed it was the Force rewarding him for his faithful service.

Sanctimonious _bustaaba_.

In his conceit in believing himself alone amongst his fellows to be the sole arbitrator of the Force's desires, he could be manipulated and used as a weapon by the deployment of his own deeply buried, primitive human weaknesses if he could be persuaded they were expression of the will of the Force. The Jedi could train a human to rise above his baser instincts, those arising out of deep-seated neuroses and fears, but not even they could train them out of existence. Deep inside, an ancient reptilian brain slumbered until awoken – especially if one knew how.

He did.

So it was that his desire to emblazon his name into history by the legacy he would leave behind, by an aging man's fears that his latest protégé had outgrown him and was soon to leave him behind, and by his wish to have his choices validated created an opportunity to twist those impulses into action. He had already repudiated his dearly beloved padawan and alienated his fellow servants of the Force. He had taken a viper into his nest and embraced him as his salvation.

And when the game was ended and the truth exposed, the great Qui-Gon Jinn would be reduced to a rotting carcass swaying in the wind of realization: that his sacrifice in the name of the Force had been at the behest of another. He would not be able to deny his weaknesses – preyed upon weaknesses, to be sure – had been the tools to carve out Kenobi's soul and cast it away, _poof_, gone forever.

Oh, revenge was sweet, indeed.

* * *

Deep within the bowels of the Jedi Temple, a glow lamp cast shadows of light and dark on a contorted face. BB was almost choking on his laughter, for Kenobi's shocked and wan face was emblazoned on his mind's eye, a mental picture he could haul out and gloat over as required. Hell, he thought between breaths, maybe wrecking havoc with his mind would be even more satisfying than killing him.

Exactly like the boss intended to do with Jinn! He was beginning to sense the attraction in that approach. Create mayhem and disruption, torment into mental anguish without end.

Whatever Jinn had done to the boss went beyond what he was privy to. The hot fire seeking revenge had cooled to a cold rage, an implacable determination that would wait to strike. His own fire had flared to incandescence here at the Temple, nearly within touching range of Jinn - and Kenobi.

And it wasn't like his orders weren't clear enough: concealment, observation, and non-interference unless absolutely required.

But Kenobi was at hand, vulnerable – his hands clenched and unclenched with his desire to kick that Rabiski wartslime forever into the Force.

He punched the nearest wall and nursed the bruised knuckles that followed. Kenobi! He could so easily slit the young man's throat or carve out his heart. It would be no great loss to the Jedi or the galaxy. Not even, it seemed, to the Force, for he had overheard enough in his prowls to know Kenobi was all but blind where it mattered, an even more worthless hulk of flesh and limited intellect than he had ever been.

Why shouldn't he kill the man when and if he had the chance? Kenobi was merely a tool, the boss had said so – and he could serve the purpose alive or dead. Desire firmed into resolve. Kenobi was a walking dead man.

In some dusty, unused portion of the Temple, a grown man giggled.

* * *

Obi-Wan wasn't in his quarters when Mace returned. Good, he thought, pleased that the young Jedi was occupying his time with various tasks and classes around the Temple. It was exactly what Obi-Wan needed, or so the healers said, reestablishing a routine, creating and recreating mental pathways within his brain and mind both.

_Burned out_ was the roughest analogy they had found for layman such as himself; synaptic pathways disrupted and the flow of signals interrupted. For a Jedi in full command of the Force, such was reasonably quickly repaired, in the nature of a few weeks to somewhat longer.

In Obi-Wan's case, the timeline was much longer.

The healers were conferring with medical specialists outside the Order, specialists used to dealing with patients more like Obi-Wan – patients not able to use the Force.

_Patience_ they counseled.

Half-whistling tunelessly under his breath, Mace set about preparing a small meal. He was almost head first in the cooking unit, poking at a dish with a finger to test its relative doneness, when the door opened.

Ah, Obi-Wan, just in time.

He straightened, fanning his head with one hand and turned; his words to wash up and get ready died unsaid. The man was bedraggled, more mentally than physically, his eyes dull as they had not been for some time now.

"I'm just – dispirited," Obi-Wan said quietly. He sniffed at the appetizing aroma, managed a smile and disappeared. Mace was about to follow him when he heard the sound of running water. A moment later Obi-Wan reappeared, reached for plates and utensils, and set the table.

When it seemed Obi-Wan was disinclined to explain his state of mind, Mace gestured with his head for the young man to sit. He brought out the hot dishes and after the young man had helped himself and taken his first bite, he asked, "Why?

Obi-Wan blinked and set his fork down.

"For a man who just received a personal visit from the Chancellor –"

"Well, that's just it," Obi-Wan interrupted, not even seeming to notice he had cut Mace off mid-sentence. "With every word out of his mouth, I got more and more uncomfortable. It was like – he had his version of what happened and he was determined I agree with his every word and every conclusion."

"What version would that be?" Mace kept eating, though he kept his focus on Obi-Wan. They were strange words for him to say, but Obi-Wan had always been perceptive when other things didn't interfere.

The young Jedi's face reddened. "How I was such a credit to the Order and Master – Master Qui-Gon's teachings –"

"You are."

The flush deepened. "And he knew from my fierce defense of my – my master and then my attempt to save him, how devoted to him I must be and how Master Jinn was in my debt and he was sure he'd never seen such a friendship and knew even after my knighting we would remain close…he brought up everything I want to forget and just move past."

Mace nodded and set down his fork. He folded his arms together. "Jinn and Kenobi: the team with a reputation. Your exploits were known around the Senate, it is no surprise he referred to it. I am sorry; we should have suggested he not bring that up."

"He did more than bring it up, he harped on it." Obi-Wan dropped his head into his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. "He just kept smiling as he twisted the proverbial vibroblade. I didn't think it would still hurt so much, Master Windu."

_Just let it go into the Force, Obi-Wan_. Those words were on the tip of his tongue but somehow he managed to refrain from their utterance. "His words only have as much power as you give them," was what he said instead.

"Look on the bright side – I don't have him chiding me for my attention to the Living Force, do I?" Obi-Wan let out a strangled gasp, half pain, half laughter. "And I've been blessed to see a side of the redoubtable Master Windu not many are privileged to see."

"What!" Mace quickly stood, peering up and down his body in alarm before reseating himself with a sigh of relief. "You scared me, young man; thought after my shower I'd forgotten to dress!"

"That's a privilege?"

The elder Jedi pretended to box the younger's ears. Inside he was thinking he was the privileged one. The Force had blessed him with one padawan of whom he was very proud, and now, for at least a few weeks, had blessed him with another all-but-padawan for a short time.

Perhaps in time he should seek the Force's blessings for yet another.


	38. When Darkness Fell

**Chapter 38. When Darkness Fell**

"Now remember, size matters not." With a squeeze of a small shoulder and a conspiratorial wink, Obi-Wan sent the small initiate into his practice bout. D'arian Delgada shuffled forward a step and stopped, bright brown eyes turning back to gaze uncertainly at the young Jedi kneeling at the edge of the mat.

"Go on, now, show them what you've learned," Obi-Wan whispered into his ear, both hands gripping the small shoulders in reassurance. Turning the youth around, he gave him a small push, then got to his feet and moved to a front row seat as the two youngsters bowed in the customary opening of a bout. A small grin crossed his face as D'arian bounced on his feet where once he had hung back, awaiting the signal to begin.

When it came, his opponent, Geseth Gopang, charged forward with a swing of the padded stick. D'arian stepped forward where once he had held back and agilely twisted under the stick and danced away with a quick glance at Obi-Wan, who both nodded in approval and at the same time gave a signal to pay attention just before his opponent took advantage of the distraction. The young initiate barely avoided the blow with a spring, pivot and twist and a look of shocked pleasure that was echoed on Obi-Wan's own face.

A forward somersault and twist landed him behind the larger boy where his own stick came around and struck his opponent in the seat of his pants. Geseth stayed focused dispute the stifled snickers from the audience, pivoted and raised his stick to block another blow but D'arian was no longer there. His stick tapped Geseth on the neck from behind.

"Match," the instructor called out. D'arien stared disbelievingly at the master, gulped and turned to Geseth who was almost as astonished as D'arien at the outcome.

The two younglings bowed and were then supposed to move to the side of the room to await their next pairing, only D'arian ran over to Obi-Wan with a shout of glee. The young man put a finger over his mouth in warning not to be too loud about it as he dropped to one knee, and D'arian loudly whispered, "It worked, it worked, it worked. I beat someone!" He flung his arms around the older Jedi's neck.

"You bested someone in a match," Obi-Wan corrected, mindful that the class goals were more sweeping than the teaching of mere skills. "Next time Geseth may best you; there is honor in the match regardless of outcome as long as you both fought your best." He tilted the young face up to his. "But I am well pleased with you, little young. You have done very well."

"Are you going to help me get even better?"

"Of course." He tousled the brown locks. "That is what I am here for - to encourage each of you in turn to find your own strengths and minimize your weaknesses."

D'arien's face fell. "I had hoped you would help teach me enough to win," he hastily corrected himself, "best my opponents – at least a few more times."

Obi-Wan smiled reassuringly. "Oh, you will, if you continue to practice what I've taught you. After all I learned to best a few of my larger age mates and more than once. I was about Master Yoda's size and my age mates were Master Rancisis's." D'arien giggled, as intended. "One in particular called me the 'runt of the litter,' one of many nicknames I despised. Master Yoda gave me a few tips to even things up and now I am passing them on to you just as I'll be passing on a few tips to the others, to be fair to everyone."

D'arien swallowed his disappointment and pleaded, "Just not right away, please?"

He couldn't say no to that face. "Well, not _right_ away, perhaps," he mouthed with a hint of a smile playing around his lips. He beckoned to Geseth Gopang, who came obediently to his other side. He laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You did well, too, young Geseth."

"But I lost," the boy mumbled, looking astonished to be praised.

"You were bested but you did not lose. You are one of the most skilled in this class according to your instructor and are used to being the victor. But you handled that match with the maturity and good grace of a true Jedi and that is why you did not 'lose' as you seem to think. I see the makings of a fine Jedi knight in you – in a few years or more." He winked as Geseth ducked his head shyly.

"When you are bested more often than you best others, should such an improbability happen," he grinned at the wide-eyed look that greeted that comment, "it'll be your turn, I promise – but right now, you do not need the additional instruction that some others do. Have I your permission to concentrate on the others for a while? I just want your promise that you'll tell me if I forget to give you at least _some_ attention."

The blond head nodded.

"Good." He offered each a quick hug and then stood, raising his voice a bit to gain the attention of the all the initiates. "I will be helping everyone but if your age mates don't object to my giving a few of you a bit of extra attention until you all are on the same relative footing – will that be all right with everyone in the class?" He looked around, eyebrow cocked questioningly.

Like the little Jedi in training they were, even at that tender age, they all enthusiastically agreed. They genuinely wanted D'arien to compete at the same level that they had already attained. Even Geseth, the most skilled and thus the most likely to object in the group, nodded with the rest.

How unlike his own younger years, he the D'arien in his group and Bruck Chun the Geseth, for Bruck had begrudged the slightest training that might possibly allow "the runt" to compete on an equal footing.

He moved back to his seat at the side as the next pair of youngsters assumed the ready position. These two were more evenly matched in style as well as body size and composition. Obi-Wan offered encouragement and tips to one and the instructor to the other; then they switched initiates.

They repeated this with several more pairings until the class ended and the initiates filed out for their next classes, all chattering away in high spirits.

Kieran Donato, another initiate, stopped and tugged on Obi-Wan's sleeve. "You are coming back tomorrow, Obi-Wan, aren't you?" he asked with a hopeful face.

"There's few others places I'd rather be, so yes, I'll be here every day, for a while at least." Several cheered. He clutched his heart and dramatically pronounced, "I'm so touched," as they giggled and filed past.

The two adults gathered the padded sticks and checked each to be sure that the padding was firmly in place and safe for younglings who were not always adept at managing either their blows or emotions. An adult Jedi could compensate and pull or abort a strike with loose padding or cracks but a child could not and all the instructors were mindful to keep the equipment in the absolute best and safe condition possible.

"Nicely done, Obi-Wan." The instructor broke the silence as they placed the sticks in the racks. "I see improvement already in those you have helped over these last few days. Have I your permission to submit your name for approval as an instructor for these classes?"

Obi-Wan looked up, surprised and pleased. "I would be honored, Master."

"It is my pleasure. You have a rapport with the younglings as well as their respect – and mine." The instructor put the last stick away and the two Jedi left the room together before parting.

If this were his future in the Order, Obi-Wan decided, it was a future that would hold satisfaction and even joy even if some part of him yearned for that which he had been trained – field agent, diplomat and knight.

He could still have a hand in raising the next generation of Jedi.

* * *

"Good match, Ni'sha – your lightsaber skills nearly rival mine." Qui-Gon winked at his friend as their impromptu spar ended. He held up his hands in mock-surrender as she pretended to swing her lightsaber hilt into his ribs, but rather than heading to the showers, they both lingered in the sallé.

"You have not spoken of Obi-Wan once, Qui-Gon," Lilebeth de Nichoise observed as she reached for a towel to blot her face. She slapped Qui-Gon on the back as she straightened up, her voice jovial. "Has your pride and joy been sent on yet another solitary mission or has he perchance taken his trials in my absence?"

"Actually, no. I released him as my padawan." His voice was deliberately flat.

Ni'sha's eyes widened and she coughed to cover her surprise. "Why ever would you do that – what did that boy do this time? Find another 'worthy cause' outside the Order?"

_Melida/Daan_. The reminder hit Qui-Gon like a punch in the stomach; he hadn't thought about that in some time. Ni'sha had never thought Obi-Wan had made appropriate amends for that debacle. She had thought Obi-Wan had made an unforgiveable mistake and Qui-Gon one in taking the boy back. Her tone had been coldly formal and impersonal whenever she had spoken with the apprentice, quite a contrast to the light and warm tone she took with the master. Long after most of the Temple had let Melida/Daan fade into history, Ni'sha had not, seeming to insist that his padawan continue to pay this "debt of penance" until she deemed it satisfied.

Obi-Wan had born her cool disdain stoically and without complaint, but Qui-Gon had known the boy was hurt and resigned to the fact that nothing he could do would ever absolve him in her eyes. The situation became untenable and Qui-Gon had to finally tell Ni'sha she needed to honor his forgiveness and treat Obi-Wan as he demanded his padawan be treated– or set their friendship on the sidelines until his padawan's knighting. His focus by choice and by necessity had been the boy he had taken back.

And he had not had cause to regret any of it – until recently.

Trying to control his hurt and betrayal, he merely remarked, "I found the worthy cause this time and fought to bring him to the Temple; Obi-Wan opposed it."

A perfectly shaped eyebrow rose in query. "Him?"

"A boy whom I know to be the Chosen One of prophecy, sent to lead us out of darkness and bring balance to the Force. My new padawan. Anakin Skywalker."

A finger tapped against Ni'sha's full lips as she contemplated his words. "You base this on…?"

"His midi count exceeds Yoda's; he took out the droid control ship above Naboo allowing the Gungan army to succeed against the Trade Federation's droid army – need I go on?"

"That's still a wild conjecture that this – how old is this boy, anyway? – is the Chosen One – you've been on a wild Chosen One chase for how many years now?" Qui winced; trust Ni'sha to get to what she probably considered the heart of the matter, his decades long pursuit of prophecy. It dated back to his time as master to Xanatos – the boy had even done research on the prophecy on his behalf. "For gods sake, Qui, why didn't you wait for Obi-Wan's knighting before taking on a new padawan – he's probably far too young to apprentice anyway."

"He's nine."

"Nine? And the Council didn't bat an eye?" She laughed at her own joke. "How many bruises did you inflict and what hold do you have over them to get them to accept this boy?"

"The truth."

"Force, Qui, since when does your truth win these kinds of battles? You always claim the Force is directing your actions and the Council claims it's your stubborn willfulness seeking validation of some desire of yours carefully cloaked in a claim of 'the Force wills it.' Sometimes I think you truly believe the Force speaks only to you."

"Speaks no," Qui-Gon brushed that comment off, hiding his hurt that she would say that of him. "But few truly listen and even fewer are willing to follow its will regardless of what it asks."

Ni'sha only shook her head; something it seemed everyone did when Qui-Gon spoke of no sacrifice too great for the Force, sending the loose ringlets that framed her face hair flying. She ran a hand through the golden brown locks, nearly pulling the cascade out of its clip at the back of her neck. "So then you gave up Obi-Wan for this new boy?"

"For the Chosen One, yes," Qui-Gon agreed. "Anakin Skywalker."

"I don't believe it." That flat pronouncement was a bit of a shock. "This Anakin is nine and new to the Order. Obi-Wan is or should be nearing his trials, yet you let him go rather than waiting a few months to as long as a year while 'Anakin' gets adjusted to life in the Temple. Qui-Gon, just what were you thinking!"

By now her eyes were flashing and her hands planted on her hips.

"I hardly expected to find you standing up for my former padawan before hearing my reasons," he growled.

"Don't get snippy with me, Qui-Gon," she warned. "I'm not nearly as fond of that boy as you are, but you've yet to give me a reason you cut him loose at this time - nor have you given the slightest indication that you care one whit about what will become of him – a cast-off padawan not yet ready for his trials. And don't," she poked a finger in Qui-Gon's chest, "give me this the Force asked it of me crap, either, not by itself. I don't buy it and I bet the Council didn't buy it; so what is your real excuse?"

Barely registering that other Jedi were drifting in and out of the sallé as his voice grew a bit heated, Qui-Gon snapped, "You haven't heard the half of it, Ni'sha; he was defiant and disobedient; he was not willing to yield his place and his behavior was petulant and spiteful to a mere boy – he would have left him in slavery –"

A most indelicate snort greeted this declaration. "So what? Yield his place of ten or so years at your side for a strange nine year old boy on your word alone without one word of protest? He had the nerve to stand up to you like you've taught him and you're ready to let him be expelled, if it comes to that? Even if he's wrong, if he had the guts to stick to his blaster even in the face of your opposition, he probably should be on the fast track to his trials. What in the Force is wrong with you, Qui – this is Obi-Wan we're talking about; you know, the boy you extol the virtues of to any who will let you."

"I know who we're speaking of!" Qui-Gon exclaimed in exasperation, "but you're not listening. I did only what the Force asked of me. It was his place to yield and he refused! He does not deny Anakin has a destiny; he just refuses to let it inconvenience him. _He_ stood in Anakin's way – in willful disobedience to the Force itself and so only validated my decision that he is not fit to be a Jedi. The Force must be allowed to guide us; it defines us!"

"No one denies that –"

"He did!" He almost bellowed. With an effort, he lowered his voice. "He proved himself to be everything you once thought of him; a hotheaded, angry young man more dedicated to himself than to the need of others. He is the padawan who successfully hid his anger issues and led me to believe he had overcome them. You think I _want_ to believe I was deceived? You think I'm lying to myself about the will of the Force? I was there, Ni'sha; I witnessed it all."

"Witnessed _what_, Qui-Gon?

The Jedi master's face almost crumbled. He ran a hand over his head and in that moment he looked as broken as he felt. "He fell, Ni'sha."

She either didn't hear him, or believe what she heard. "He – what?"

"He fell – my Obi-Wan fell and I fear –" _I fear he is lost, for the light has forsaken him_.

"Are – are you sure?"

He nodded. "He killed and he healed – both deeds in the darkness of his despair. He killed the Zabrak who nearly killed me, but he didn't kill him in clean battle, but in rage and terror at my supposed death at his hand – killed not to save but to avenge. His heart was black with hate…and with his unclean hands and darkened soul he then called on the power of the dark side to save my life. I felt the untamed power burn through him – and I felt the Force recoil in shame and flee from his grasp."

The awful reality overwhelmed him once more; he all but staggered as he sat and brought his hands to his face. His words were muffled. "He sought revenge for what he thought was my death and he killed in anger. All this rage that had been bubbling in him had been pushing its way up for some time now and it finally exploded. The padawan I loved died that day."

Stunned, Ni'sha dropped to a seat beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I noticed that you can't even bring yourself to use his name. Qui-Gon – how awful. I swear I thought he had conquered his anger years back. I know you thought he had." Her face darkened with shared grief and Qui-Gon knew she was just as taken aback as he had been at the time. "And the Council – what punishment have they imposed on him – what corrective measures?"

"None." Like a dam breached by a sympathetic ear, his bitterness poured out in an unstoppable flood. At last someone was listening to him. It didn't matter if Ni'sha believed him or not, she, at least, listened.

And so did several others.


	39. Sweet Are the Dreams of Slumber

**Chapter 39. Sweet Are the Dreams of Slumber**

With Ni'sha's comforting hand on his arm, Qui-Gon allowed himself to mourn the passing of his illusions about his once promising padawan. It was true; he had loved Obi-Wan, he now acknowledged, or at least the man he had thought he had known, perhaps the man he had even been at times.

There had been a sparkle in his eyes that could not have been faked, a smile that rivaled the suns and a laugh that was like a ray of sunshine breaking through a storm – oh, if there had only not been the anger, the recklessness or the impatience as well.

"_So that's what happened," one Jedi remarked softly to another as they left the sallé. _

"_Not necessarily."_

"_I meant from Jinn's point of view – I wonder what the full truth is?"_

"_Perhaps that is what the Council is trying to ascertain: Kenobi was secluded for quite a while, you know, and Master Windu has been keeping him under close watch."_

"You hear that, Qui?" Ni'sha nudged her friend. "Maybe the Council isn't as unaware as you think they are. They wouldn't bandy around they were investigating Kenobi while they were doing so – it'd be just like them to keep it low key."

Before the Jedi master could respond that he rather doubted that based on a few prior heated exchanges with Mace, his new padawan walked in.

"Hey, Master," he chirped, glancing curiously at the female Jedi.

"Hi, there. You must be Anakin Skywalker and I'm Master Lilebeth de Nichoise; you can call me Master Ni'sha."

"Pleased to meet you." He grinned and then remembered to bow.

Ni'sha threw an amused glance at Qui-Gon. "How refreshing – he's as uninhibited as you and like you, bound to throw the Council into hissy fits, too, I imagine." She smiled and laid a hand on the youngster's shoulder. "So Anakin, tell me what you like about being a young Jedi in training?"

Qui-Gon watched, amused, as the two hit it off. He shouldn't have been surprised, Anakin was a very likeable child and as Ni'sha had said, Anakin was not like the others – he was very open-hearted and not at all reticent about sharing his feelings.

* * *

Few dared to call BB "insane" to his face. Those few who had had found it the last thing they would ever do. BB was obsessed, even he knew, but his obsession was honed and specific, centered on old injustices and former rivals. It predated the boss's saving him from an ignominious life, a life he had given everything he had to avoid and one he had been consigned to anyway. If his obsession verged on insanity, it was a limited insanity and one that might soon be partially satiated. He was cunning and capable of subtlety should it be required – especially if he could avenge old injustices.

Notwithstanding the boss's orders, he could also deviate from plans and be bold and incautious if it furthered his personal goals. Humiliating Kenobi was too good an opportunity to pass up, so he would be bold.

If he was ignored, no harm done. If not – nothing like going from lauded to vilified in quick order.

Hiding within Jedi robes, the cowl shading his face, he contacted the Chancellor's office. He had filched several sets of clothing from the laundry in his prowls and had no trouble looking the part. He could and had already mingled amongst the Jedi, all without notice.

If _they_ could not sense him, Kenobi was as good as his.

* * *

The current and only Sith, Sidious, was intrigued.

A holographic transmission had been sent to the Chancellor's office from the Jedi Temple – an anonymous one, and what the Chancellor knew, the Sith lord knew. Of course, Mas Amadda had seen it first then had dutifully passed it on. Anonymous! How droll. Someone thought one of the "heroes of Naboo" so recently praised by the Chancellor was instead a scoundrel of the worst sort.

Kenobi – a fallen Jedi. How he wished.

He shook his head, a smile playing around his lips. If this were even partially true, Kenobi was closer to his grasp than he believed. He submerged himself into the Force, examined all that he knew and all that he could surmise. What he found pleased him. Kenobi had _not_ fallen, but he _had_ heard the siren call of the dark and it _had_ marked him. He was vulnerable.

If only the blasted boy would reach out once more to the Force.

That vast power swirled around the boy; caressing him like a lover and Kenobi reacted like a eunuch to a seductress, that is to say, reacted not at all. He might have to find access to the young man's medical records. Was the Jedi merely psychologically unable to tap into it or was there a physical interference?

Could this anonymous Jedi help? He sincerely doubted it; with his command of the Force he knew more about all the players in the game than anyone could tell him. But it was interesting – most interesting, that a Jedi would rat another one out like this.

The warren of his enemies was infested. How delightful!

* * *

The weight of responsibility stiffened the young man's spine, though the burden was light. He could count himself again amongst the useful with duties.

His first class – and not as anyone's assistant. At least for a few days, this was his class.

A smile graced Obi-Wan's face as he walked into the classroom ahead of the chattering initiates soon to arrive. Over last meal the previous night, Master Windu had quietly informed him he would be taking over Master Danner's class while she was on a short sabbatical, a verdict delivered with a slight pursing of the lips.

"_She specifically requested you step in while she attends a seminar-slash-class of her own, Obi-Wan. Have you done something to earn someone's wrath?_

It was well known that young initiates and Master Windu held each other at dismayed arms length._ Hiding his amusement, Obi-Wan said gravely, "I consider this an honor, Master Windu."_

"_You do?" The senior Jedi folded his arms and peered doubtfully at the younger. "Perhaps you should be given a checkup."_

_The repressed smile was replaced by a grimace. "I've got one scheduled in a few days. That, I do not consider an honor."_

He stood and took the instructor's spot in the front when the first initiates filed in.

"Where's Master Danner?" Roryan, a surprisingly good fighter and usually the quietest, asked.

"In class," he answered her and nodded, amused, as the students groaned in sympathy. "I'll be teaching this class in her absence."

Kieran and D'arian glanced at each and grinned.

"Now, now," Obi-Wan admonished gently, nonetheless touched. Something stirred in him nowadays, emotions that were not always those a Jedi should embrace, but he was not embracing them. He did, however, feel them and he now acknowledged them, at least to himself rather than hiding them behind a façade he could no longer maintain. "Wipe those smiles off your faces, grab a stick and line up."

"Yes, Master Obi-Wan," the class echoed and lined up in neat rows, ready to practice the moves they would later use in their "sparring sessions."

_Master Obi-Wan_ – they had already gifted him with the respect of learners to a teacher. His own lips were twitching now. It would not do to drop to his knees and hug them all – but he certainly wished to.

"We're going to start learning a new move, today." He demonstrated in slow motion, then a bit faster. "Now try and remember not to drop your shoulder – and before one of you brings up Master Yoda, at your age you are allowed to 'try;' I said so."

"Can we tell him you said that?" The inevitable wit in the class cracked.

"Only if you want me too hobbled to teach," he shot back, pretending to rub his ankle.

* * *

Qui-Gon would not have admitted it to anyone even had he been aware of what he was feeling. Relief. If truth be told, he had moments of doubt…brief and fleeting though they were, tied always to a stray and inconvenient memory.

But Ni'sha had listened with an open mind and in the end had thought him justified.

Justified. He almost snorted. He didn't need justification; he only needed the Force and its will to guide him.

Ni'sha had taken Anakin off somewhere to allow him a chance to meditate, something he sorely needed.

So here he was, on his knees and sinking into the Force – here there were never any questions, only answers, even if as muddled as Yoda's syntax. The answers were clear when a Jedi cleared his mind and gave his all over to the Force.

He sank further into its warm flow.

_

* * *

_

The blade came down with a hiss – and a head hit the floor with a soft thud. It rolled onto one cheek and came to rest, horrified brown eyes still staring but no longer seeing. The small body, that of a Zabrak child with horns just beginning to sprout, lay crumpled a few feet away, building blocks scattered in random array around the open hands.

"_NO!"_

_Another child fell, then another, then still more. _

"_Not the younglings!"_

_The blade paused; its bearer, too. The figure slowly turned but only shadows could be seen beneath the cowl. The voice, however, was undeniably human and compassionate in its tone, albeit a bit surprised to be addressed. _

"_But I do them a kindness: I spare them experiencing the deaths of their elders by sending them to eternal sleep first." The voice, strangely, was full of compassion. "So shall they all die. It is my honor and my duty to summon them and send them on their way. Why would you wish to interfere?"_

"_You commit murder; that is why. Only a monster kills children; lay down your weapon in the name of the Force or I shall be forced to take your life to spare these few who remain."_

"_Ah, you don't understand," the figure chuckled and took a step nearer. "I am no monster. I do no evil deed here. I am the instrument and the messenger. I do only as the Force commands of me: bring my children peace, send them home. No more, no less. I am its servant."_

"_A servant of the dark," he hissed, pulling his lightsaber to his hand and readying his stance._

"_Name calling, are you?" The voice chided him; then grew hard. "Who are you to question the Force, to lay your judgments on it? The Force merely is."_

"_How dare you defile the Force by claiming to act on its behalf, to slay innocence and steal lives! I demand your name and your true allegiance. What and who are you?" His voice was hoarse with loathing and righteous anger. "I do not wish to raise my blade to you but I shall if I must. I will not permit this slaughter to continue."_

"_You don't recognize me?" The voice was amused, now. "Why, I am the one who hears the Force when none else dare. My mind and my heart are attuned only to the Force. I am one who was raised to follow the Force without question. As you taught me, I ask only what it will have me do, not why, and then follow the path it sets before me. It has now asked that I send all the Jedi home and now, dear Master, it is your time. Rejoice for the gift I am to bestow on you: remember there is no death, only the Force."_

"_What is your name?"_

"_Betrayer, a name given me by your own lips, Master dear." The sapphire blade sizzled through the air, knocking the emerald blade aside without hesitation. "Now don't forget to tell the Force who sent you to eternal peace within it."_

_A name, a curse, slipped from his lips. "Is not one betrayal enough?"_

"_I am not he."_

"_Then who?" He spoke a name._

_A laugh only greeted that, followed by a name: too late for a dead man to hear. _

Qui-Gon pulled out of his meditation more unsettled than ever. The Force had chosen to give him a puzzle, a waking nightmare instead of the serenity he sought. Whose name had been on the stranger's lips?

Xanatos? Obi-Wan? Somehow it had been both, first one than the other – then neither. Both had been his padawans. It had to have been one or the other.

Somehow, he knew, it was not.

"I don't understand; I'm sorry." But the Force was not clear; its message only a painful dig.

* * *

Far away, another man's eyes snapped open and he almost waved on the lights in his bedchamber before remembering it was not his own and the weight upon his chest was the woman he had seduced.

Her full body pressed most delightfully against newly stirring regions; there was no doubt how he'd be waking her up in a moment or two, dipping into her pleasures before her eyes were even open.

Mereinda, so loath, so shy, had been so carefully coaxed to this night. It was not the wine nor the dinner nor even his wandering hands, but his "I love you" in between the kisses that had trailed down her neck that had overcome her objections.

A lie, of course, he only loved one woman in the way she thought he had meant; the truth, as well, for he loved many, for few were the nights he spent outside a bed warmed by a willing body.

Three simple words were the key to a woman's heart, and with her heart, her all and so it had been she who had taken his hand so trustingly and led him to her bed.

And like with them all, once he'd had Mereinda out of her clothes and had introduced her to that most ancient of dances, she had been a willing and eager partner with a voracious appetite he had been more than willing to satisfy. It had been a while since he had so used his body and he felt the ache in his muscles, but it was a good ache. Even with the strength of the Force as his unseen partner, he had succumbed to the need for sleep after twice satiating them both.

And instead of love his dreams were of death and betrayal.

"How inconvenient," he murmured. Lovemaking should not be so tainted, not with the deaths of younglings, toys scattered in disarray amidst the sprawled limbs and severed heads and the bright gleaming blade. Two out of the many caught his eye: both human and both male. He knew both: one was himself and one was another he knew, if not well.

Both dead, both staring into eternity, both clutching each other's hands – enemies in life but companions in death.

Standing over them both was a laughing, blond boy while another he knew applauded from behind: Qui-Gon Jinn.

He swore under his breath and Mereinda stirred, only to shudder fully awake to his "Time to wake, love," whisper as he buried that dream within her.

* * *

Staring eyes.

Blank eyes.

Dead eyes.

He shuddered as the images flashed across his mind's eye: younglings, in the undignified sprawls of violent death. It was not the first time he had seen death, not even that of children, but he knew these faces. D'arian, Geseth, Roryan and Kieran…his students, all, and not just them, but all the younglings in the Temple.

Slaughtered.

_Obi-Wan_.

For some reason his name echoed from some invisible person's lips, an accusation; he felt it in his bones. A despairing cry – an outraged cry – a condemning cry.

He turned to see his former master kneeling amidst the dead, cradling a blond boy whose head lolled back against the broad shoulder.

"_Why_?_"_

He opened his mouth to echo the cry but the voice of another spoke through him.

"Recompense." That same other then twisted his lips into a sneer, yet it was his own hand, guided by no other, that reached to gently close the boy's sightless eyes. His hand, smeared red.

He stared at it in horror, holding it out in front of him in shock and dismay. No! The cry was torn from his throat; echoed in his heart. No!

He stood and slowly backed away as Qui-Gon's hand came up to point at him. "You!"


	40. Hero on a Pedestal

**Chapter 40. Hero on a Pedestal**

Seemingly out of nowhere, whispers and innuendo were slowly creeping from the privacy of thought to public utterance.

_He touched the dark!_

_Touched, not fell!_

Though known to be the Jedi who had slain a Sith and a man who had nearly exhausted his own life force to save a dying man, he was not publicly acknowledged as either the man who had slain a dark warrior or saved a dying Jedi master.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a ward of the Head of the Council. Perhaps because he was not yet cleared of the accusation of – taint – by his own master.

That last was not rumor, some claimed.

Right, others scoffed. A dying man could know little but pain and the inevitability of death.

On one thing all agreed: Obi-Wan Kenobi was an enigma, a man not yet whole even if no one was exactly sure from what he suffered other than the ignominy of being cast aside.

And so the debate went on: had Kenobi been set aside for cause or not?

Many thought that the Force had sent the Chosen One to succeed Kenobi rather than replace him and that it was the Council who had stood adamant, unwilling to advance the one to accept the other; that it was they who forced Master Jinn's hand and forced the padawan's uncertain status.

Others wondered: perhaps he had not only touched the dark side as claimed but immersed himself within it and was now serving penance, punished by the Force itself. Of those, most believed that only the unrepentant were forever doomed to trod the path of darkness.

As for the gulf between former master and former padawan, almost all wondered: was it an irreparable gulf of guilt, unbridgeable even should forgiveness be asked and granted in return?

So far the burgeoning suspicion had not seeped down to the younger Jedi, the crèchlings and initiates. To them, Obi-Wan Kenobi was no more and no less than someone they'd had always known and someone who occasionally assisted in their classes, like other senior padawans and new knights. Now that he was resident in the Temple he was far more present in their daily lives and as an actual instructor.

He had become a hero to the impressionable, or so Anakin Skywalker thought; the mystique of the "Sith killer" contaminating the younger Jedi with admiration and a totally underserved respect that was nearly adulation. And it frustrated and angered him, for he knew the truth was being kept from them.

Kenobi was a failure as a Jedi.

He would have known that just for the simple fact that he had been pushed aside for Anakin – one with years of training under his belt for one already his equal with none – but also for the fact that others had remarked much the same.

Like Master Lilebeth de Nichoise and Master Beebe.

He liked Master Ni'sha; Anakin could tell she liked him as well. She had been dutifully impressed by his heroics above Naboo - she had even told his master he "was a keeper."

Then there was Knight Beebe.

Even now Anakin would not admit he had gotten lost in the vast Jedi Temple while exploring, admit that his frustrated whispered pleas and vicious kick at the walls had miraculously summoned a young knight to discover the source of the disturbance within the Force.

"Well, what have we here?"

The voice was as sudden as the flash of a brown cloak in the periphery of his vision. "Lost, young one?"

His chin tilted defiantly upwards, Anakin blurted, "I'm Anakin Skywalker, padawan to Master Jinn and not a young one."

"The 'Chosen One' in person?" Knight Beebe dropped to one knee and stuck out a hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Padawan Skywalker. Beebe is what I'm called. So you're the one who was responsible for old Kenobi getting the boot and about time, too. Jinn's finally got his head screwed on straight."

"Huh?"

The story came out as Beebe escorted him from the depths of the Temple to the more used corridors. Beebe had been bullied and harassed by Kenobi for years when the two had been clan mates, but Kenobi had been clever enough to appear innocent of any wrong-doing and point the finger at Beebe, who was then punished.

"Now what I've been telling you is a secret between just the two of us, okay?" Beebe paused, clasping Anakin's shoulder. "There's those who would defend Kenobi to this day and there's no need to bring further strife to the Temple. In fact, you must not even tell your master we've met, because he blames himself for my mistreatment long ago and you wouldn't want to upset Qui-Gon Jinn, would you?"

No. Anakin shook his head, but his mind was awhirl with all this new information. Had could the Council allow _him_ to get away with this horrible behavior to another Jedi? He'd done it to Beebe and he'd done it to Anakin. He'd upset Master Qui-Gon as well.

"Are you trying to get him expelled?" His voice was hopeful.

The cloaked head dipped. Anakin understood the pain of past abuse well and his heart went out to the young knight as he choked, "Kenobi will be – dealt with soon enough; the Force has sent you, I believe, to rectify the pain of the past. You will have the undying gratitude of many by serving as the Hand of the Force. Now go on, you should know where you are now and remember – don't upset your master by telling him about our little talk."

As Anakin walked away, his head swimming with the magnitude of the task entrusted him by the Force - he almost could have sworn he heard a giggle.

* * *

"You did what!"

Oh, the boss was good and mad, BB thought. The snarl came through real well and while the man could be hardly be characterized as "all bluster and no bite," BB didn't exactly cower from him. The boss had done some despicable things in his life and no one double crossed him more than once. His punishment was inventive and a true deterrent to the merely foolish and greedy. The stupid and greedy – well – he'd taken care of them at the boss's behest more than once.

Not that the boss appreciated it. He just told BB to take care of the problem. Since the boss never inquired how, he did what he did quietly and efficiently and didn't bother the boss with details.

As cruel as the man could be, he had a soft streak deep inside him that battled his well-developed sense of self-preservation. He could be generous to the less fortunate and had spent a small fortune to benefit orphanages and such like – yet had no compunction about creating those orphans if the parents crossed him.

And not a few women who displeased him were banished without a word, buried within the well-disciplined walls of pleasure palaces on distant worlds where the only escape was through working long hours and saving one's tips.

At least life on their backs was easier than life on the streets – if one wanted to count life expectancy.

Though he knew he couldn't be seen, BB schooled his face into impassivity. "I befriended the boy. Spun him a tale even about Kenobi, pulled right from the files and twisted to fit what the boy would like to believe." He smirked. "Dig into enough files, one can find all kinds of dirt to smear, even on Jedi. Like Kenobi and his nemesis Bruck. Or Alto. Should the kid even think to ask about Kenobi's early days, he'll find out that the bad blood between them two really did exist. The kid's young enough to believe that when you can find one example, there's more to be found just better hidden."

"Why? Why, for gods sake did you risk – what if the kid asks about 'Knight Beebe' or repeats that story? Even Jinn will know something's off – you took a part of Kenobi's story and twisted it around. He'll think the long dead Bruck has resurfaced and go right to the Council. I all but guarantee the Council will begin a search high and low for an intruder and once they do, you can kiss your 'invisibility' good bye."

"The kid won't go to Jinn; I promise." The silence at the other end was ominous and BB began to sweat.

"It's your neck you're risking, BB; not just the kid's, and not just from the Jedi, but me. If you screw up your part..." There was a sudden _snap_.

He owed the boss everything – his life, his pleasures, his indulgences. He had been rescued from shame, elevated to right hand man, given access to gambling and pleasure palaces with just the merest of oversight – but he had never been given the boss's absolute trust or deepest affection. A tool, the occasional toy, the courier – the bouncer and the thug – but the boss would never risk his neck for him, he now understood as never before. Only two claimed that privilege.

He'd hacked into enough files to know why – and still did not. The details resided in the boss's brain, only, hackable only by drugging or brainwashing.

And he wanted to know why.

In the meantime, he needed to divert the boss's attention away from him – and he had some other information to pass on. The reaction was far more than he had ever expected.

"Boss, you said you want to know just about everything…." And BB had told him; it was a shock and a disturbing one. Everything was on the line now – his plans not just shot, but scattered to atoms in an unfriendly galaxy.

"No, no and no! Sabotage the tests, alter the records if you can, because if the Jedi find –BB, see to it that this line of investigation comes to a dead-end."

He absently traced circles on his desk with a forefinger. Around, lift and tap. Around, lift and tap.

Were his plans all to come to naught – no way in Sith's hells, not now, not when everything was reputedly going so well. Qui-Gon Jinn had earned - one couldn't say enmity, not of the Jedi – but a skeptical eye from his colleagues. He was earning his isolation from the Order with every word out of his mouth – or that's to say, every reality so twisted within his mind that the words were in essence not Jinn's own thoughts, but implanted ones.

Oh, the mighty Jedi master…watch how he destroys himself and one he loves as well. Two Jedi going down for the count. But the Jedi weren't stupid, and they could put one and one together to come up with two. Two would lead to inconvenient problems – and the path to truth. With the right intuitive jump, the answer could be staring them in the face nearly at the same time as the inconvenient discovery was made.

BB would have to see to it that the discovery was not made.

_Just see to it that the boy doesn't become a victim_.

His final instructions for BB – protect the boy. Against his own unwilling heart, he had started to become attached to the boy, one more of the Force's cosmic jokes. His plans for Anakin had evolved as well; the tool, the pawn, and the student was now destined for far more – to be his successor and his greatest legacy. The "Chosen One;" obedient to his whims and wishes.

If BB took care of the developing problem.


	41. The Uneasiness of Being

**Chapter 41. The Uneasiness of Being**

"Uneasy am I," Yoda confessed to Mace.

The two had just met for their daily pre-Council meeting briefing. For Yoda to admit to unease was nearly unprecedented – normally by the time his unease was communicated to others, the diminutive master had also searched the Force and had at least a glimmer of an answer, a reason, a path.

Now there was just the simple pronouncement.

"Anything in particular?" Force knew Mace was uneasy, but he at least had a reason – Obi-Wan's nightmares.

"Like young Kenobi's 'bad feelings,' uneasy am I over all that has happened; uneasy that the Force itself does not provide answers, let alone clues. Makes no sense all this mess and this pain between former master and former apprentice; a team they were, created by the Force and destroyed by something other, I think."

"The Sith?" He didn't like that hypothesis, not at all.

"Began all this did before Sith involvement. No reason there is!"

"Or no reason we can ascertain." After centuries of being thought extinguished, it was more than obvious that the Sith Order was a big uncertainty.

"Humph." Yoda's ears drooped, ceding the point. "Instigators or not, quick the Sith may be to take advantage – yet how?"

"If Qui-Gon is right, the Sith might be after the Chosen One."

Yoda's eyes narrowed and his ears pointed up and back, though he remarked mildly enough after a moment's thought, "Perhaps… a trap of the Force set up to lure the Sith to their destruction as well."

Oh, well, sure. Right. Mace frankly stared. Like the Force would work through Qui-Gon to half-cripple a promising young (almost) knight so that a nine-year-old boy with no training….

"Poppycock," he said firmly. He also moved his ankles off to the side, out of range.

"Open your mind to all possibilities you must." Yoda sighed. "Still, the answer, I fear, must lie with Qui-Gon, whether he knows it or not. Our Master Jinn is not himself and the Force – twisted around him it is. Without precedent that is and whether it comes from within or without I cannot tell." Frustration nearly colored his tone. "Explained it can be if as he thinks, his apprentice fell to the dark –"

"What! Obi-Wan didn't fall."

"Listen you did not, Master Windu! If fell as Qui-Gon thinks, then more sense it makes but a careful examination of the facts would refute that thought. Damaged young Kenobi was, we _know_, perhaps Qui-Gon was as well."

"The healers have done a comprehensive exam on both."

"This I _know _as well. Speak to me the Force does not. Why I do _not_ know."

"Interference?" Mace suggested. "Yoda, we already know that our abilities have been clouded to some degree without our knowing it – the rise of the Sith alone proves that. There were no prickles of foreboding – no sense of imminent danger – the closest we came was a padawan's 'bad feeling' and even that was unclear enough for Qui-Gon to dismiss it."

"Yes, yes – coincidence is it?"

There definitely were prickles of foreboding running up and down Mace's spine at the moment. Obi-Wan had sensed _something_ and Obi-Wan had been neatly cut off from the Force and damaged to a yet unknown degree.

The healers were delighted with his progress so far. The emotional instability that had characterized the first few weeks had abated, though Mace had noticed that his emotions were still closer to the surface than in the past. At least they no longer overwhelmed him.

"By the way, he had another nightmare last night." Yoda's head lifted and he waited patiently for Mace to continue, almost as if hoping the nightmare itself would hold answers. "I woke to a sense of distress in the Force and found him whispering, 'It wasn't I.' When I woke him he promised he could never do such an evil."

"Mmm – and did he explain this evil he would not do?"

_Obi-Wan scrubbed his face hard and took a deep breath. "I saw Death, Master Windu – violent and inexcusable death. Bodies scattered everywhere – and blood," he raised trembling hands, "blood all over my hands."_

"He remembered that all the bodies had been cut down by a lightsaber and I reminded him of what we all know – lightsaber wounds cauterize too fast for there to be much blood. I think that reassured him somewhat; I know it reassured _me_."

"_It's my fault, isn't it?" Haunted eyes rose to meet the older Jedi's. "He blamed me…and why not – it was just him and I there, just the two of us and all the dead. His padawan – and he was grief-stricken. He cared – so very much; he cared…."_

One clawed hand reached to scratch Yoda's ear. "Hmm, wonder I do if others visited by nightmares as well and what form they took."

"Others?"

"Dreams and nightmares can be sendings of the Force, not just surfacing of deeply hidden fears or joys. The story they tell is never obvious but a story there is to be unraveled. Find out we must if Qui-Gon or young Anakin these dreams visited as well and what form they took."

Oh, easy.

"_Hey, Qui – any recent nightmares?" _

"_Why, yes, Mace…."_

Mace came back to reality with a rush.

* * *

It proved harder than expected to hack into these particular computer files. Council level files, medical files, classified mission files - none had backdoors in from the less stringently protected general Jedi computer files.

There was something in the files to be discovered, and BB wanted to know what. What could possibly lead back to the boss, or connect the boy to the boss within the files of the Jedi?

At last he was in. On a sudden hunch, he decided to first download a bunch of files onto some datapads he'd filched before messing with the files – he could have just erased them, but there could be a back up elsewhere. There was a lot of information here _he_ was interested in; he would introduce a virus that would slowly corrupt the data once he had his own untarnished copy.

Because he'd learned ago to have a backup, a way out or a way in, all in self-protection. Plan A did not exist without Plan B, and no doubt, a Plan C as well, if he had learned anything from the boss.

Since he wasn't a fool, either, he knew there had to be a backup to him as well, a threat in the wings to keep him – loyal.

Redundancy. Spares. And an alternate. That was the boss's way.

Once the light flashed showing the data transfer was complete, he connected another datapad and initiated a transfer the other direction. Worms didn't draw attention to themselves, they moved stealthily and inexorably and their damage was done before the infection's discovery.

"Bye bye records," he mocked. However, he could not afford to stay and gloat. The danger of discovery was too great.

Besides, he had places to go, things to do – review the files he downloaded, run an errand for the boss….

And of course, kill or incapacitate a certain man as well. Too bad it wasn't Kenobi. Yet.

* * *

"And how was class today, Obi-Wan?" Mace looked up from his datapad, eager to take a break from the "fun side" of Council business – the laundry inventory was off, the food bills had increased again - mundane and boring items all but necessary.

"Great." Obi-Wan's eyes had nearly lost their shadows, to Mace's pleasure. This was nearly the young man of a few months ago – handling solo missions with aplomb and a firm hand. The Council had pushed him a bit to step out of Qui-Gon's shadow. Both master and padawan had seemed a bit conflicted – on one hand starting to distance themselves and on the other, drawing closer. Such was normal with such a strong bond but Obi-Wan had already learned to fly. He had just to learn how to leave the nest – and Qui-Gon to allow it.

"They're so eager to learn and this opportunity has been the best thing to come out of all this – oh, I shouldn't admit that, should I?"

"It is not official policy to reassign a Jedi away from tasks he or she likes as a character building exercise, if that's what you mean. All initiates and padawans are rotated in various tasks on a variable time schedule, depending on need or necessary skill development."

"Mmm, hmm, that's why Garen had crèche duty two rotations as a junior padawan." Obi-Wan grinned and settled into a seat.

"He needed to learn patience."

"And I didn't?"

"You weren't learning it on crèche duty, however; you were having too much fun. Your mechanical skills were and are quite adequate, but not exceptional, hence your reassignment. After an initial period of an increasingly deplorable vocabulary, you settled down – and," a sweetened berry bar nearly into Obi-Wan's outstretched hand was moved out of reach by an invisible force, "patience, Obi-Wan, last meal is nearly ready. Bant and Garen will be joining us; Yoda, as well."

"A party?" Obi-Wan snuck out a hand and latched onto a handful of nuts instead.

"Not at all." Mace didn't react when Obi-Wan's hand hit an invisible wall right in front of his mouth. Neither did Obi-Wan, who sheepishly returned the handful to the tableside dish.

"Do all masters have eyes in the back of their heads?"

"It's a job requirement, yes." Mace chuckled. "Trying to evade detection is also a time-honored Force building exercise. I mastered the art of sneaking snacks when Yoda wasn't watching about – come to think of it, I never did master that. Tell you what, you divert his attention when he gets here and I think I may finally succeed."

"Partners in crime, Master Windu?' Obi-Wan grinned. "Oh, I like but if we don't succeed, do we have to starve or protect our ankles until he leaves?"

"How about focusing on success?"

"Your focus is your reality," Obi-Wan chanted. "There's only one thing wrong with your plan – these are your quarters."

"Oh. Right." Mace rubbed his head. "Another time, then. Why don't you set the table while I finish this, oh, so terribly interesting reading." Obi-Wan leaned over to look. It wasn't confidential Council records, after all, so Mace turned the datapad to make it easier for him to read over his shoulder.

"Missing clothing?" Obi-Wan settled back. "Here I thought the Council debated life and death matters of galactic importance. No wonder Master Jinn never cared about a seat. My goal in life is going to have to change, I see." He ducked as Mace pretended to cuff his head.

"What is your goal, then?"

"Seriously?" Obi-Wan's face suddenly smoothed out, a reminder that he was not yet well and his fingers picked at his tunic's hem. "To accept the Force's will; to stop questioning why all this happened."

He ran a hand over his forehead and frowned. "I think – I'm getting there, slowly. I'm happy teaching, but – I feel incomplete. I wonder…"

Mace laid the pad down and gazed at the suddenly struggling for words Obi-Wan. "You wonder if you displeased the Force in some way." He sighed as Obi-Wan nodded slowly. "You shouldn't, you know, but then that is a natural response to a situation such as this. Nights like last night don't help, either. Maybe this will help, maybe it'll make you feel worse, but the Force doesn't have an agenda for or against any individual and –"

"And it's arrogant to presume I'm its target." Obi-Wan nodded and took a deep breath. "I do agree, up here," he tapped his head, "but down here," he tapped his heart, "it's not so easy. It's a struggle and there's times I fear I'm being torn apart by what I know and what I feel, let alone what I wish and what I…fear." He gulped at the last.

"Fear is probably an appropriate emotion under the circumstances." Obi-Wan's eyes widened and Mace shook his head in exasperation. "You're not acting on fear, Obi-Wan; it's not holding you back. You're moving forward despite it – like a Jedi. Now, go set the table, why don't you?"

As the young man nodded and moved off, Mace settled back but his eyes kept straying to him. In was in moments like this that he realized he had fallen all too easy into the trap of thinking Obi-Wan's ordeal was over and behind him.

This was a journey of recovery, and the journey nowhere near its end.


	42. On a Pedestal, Not

**Chapter 42. On a Pedestal, Not**

His master had cautioned him to leave "the matter" to his elders. But Anakin balled his fists under the table as excited words drifted over to where he sat, alone in a corner of the vast dining hall.

"_I actually knocked Barad down in class today!" _

So what, even a weakling got lucky once in a while.

"_Obi-Wan showed me…."_

D'arian Delgada and Kieran Donato were many things, all of which irritated Anakin. Both were soft spoken and well behaved, open-hearted and generous, and excelled in their studies due to hard work rather than innate cleverness. Both were also the least advanced in Force skills and physical training.

And each had received some extra personal attention from Obi-Wan. As a result each was competing on more equal terms in class.

This in turn had elevated both in the regard of their age mates along with a certain amount of envy. Worse yet, _Obi-Wan_ was elevated in the eyes of the initiates.

And why! For doing nothing but assisting weaklings, helping them to identify their strengths and minimize their weaknesses and showing them how to best use them against an opponent.

_Obi-Wan_ this – _Obi-Wan_ that.

Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan…he was so sick of hearing about Obi-Wan Kenobi from delusional and duped initiates, so caught up in the "Sith Killer's" mystique that they failed to see the real man behind the label.

Sure, he _had_ killed the Sith – but only after Master Qui-Gon had been forced to carry the weight of the battle. In the most decisive fight of his life, Obi-Wan Kenobi had faltered and fallen behind – and was feted for his achievements! The entire Temple knew of his feats.

It really was beyond time they knew the truth. They admired a man who had been unable to keep pace with Qui-Gon, leaving the Jedi master to face his opponent alone, only to take the glory and acclaim. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sith Killer, in truth was nothing more than a man driven by fear and anger; a murderer not a warrior.

He was no hero and it was about time to expose him.

"Anyone could have killed that Zabrak after Master Qui-Gon wore him down," he snapped, overriding Jasayla, one of his age mates. "Master Qui-Gon would've killed him except for that worthless apprentice he had – Master told me all about Obi-Wan's losing focus at a crucial part of the battle."

"So did Master Jinn!" Geseth retorted.

"Did he tell you that?" His voice squeaked with his outrage. Obi-Wan was spreading lies about Master Qui-Gon - oh, this could not be allowed! Master Qui-Gon didn't make mistakes, not about anything and in any way. He had never met anyone like him in his young life and he'd met lots of people. He was always kind and helpful, always patient and always a bit sad. Like his mother. Both brightened up and their eyes sparkled at just his presence.

They both loved him – and he loved them back.

_Love makes you weak, boy!_

That's what everyone told him. On Tatooine and here in the Jedi Temple. Love killed and love weakened. Love for Iago had killed Iago. He had been taught to be strong since he was old enough to toddle.

Only when _he_ wasn't there, was he allowed to be just a boy, just Anakin Skywalker, the son of Shmi. He'd learned the hard way to hide his training from his mother, to explain the scars and bruises as those of a growing boy. His mother had suspected anyway, but had suspected Watto of mistreating him.

If she had only known.

The knowledge would just have hurt her. Watto or another man, in the end, what difference did it make? Watto only berated and scolded; scared of this other hidden beneath a cloak who took his boy away for hours at a time while paying for the privilege. The cloaked man promised to make him strong and he had so eagerly agreed, not knowing the price.

The blood price: Iego. The threatened price: his beloved mother.

He had gotten a glimpse, just once. One defiant refusal to obey – come home, boy, in a little while. See the price of "no."

He'd stood, tears streaming down his face. "Mom!" And he'd raced home, suddenly knowing the threat was all too real; his throat too tight to even scream her name.

All he could remember now was an open door – a man, _the_ man – and his mother's fingernails, drawing blood.

Crimson drops against pale skin…and soft grunts and little cries.

And it was all his fault!

He had backed out – silent and scared, tears streaming down his face – and run back to Watto's shop. One look at his face, and the normally scolding Toydarian merely muttered, "poor Shmi," sadly shook his head, and rummaged amidst the broken parts before plopping a complex part on the counter before him.

"Here, you fix'a this, Ani." And for a while, he almost had been able to forget.

He had raced home as soon as Watto gave him leave to find his mother fixing dinner, joyful as always to see him, not a sign of pain visible upon her body or within her eyes. But he knew what she held silent within.

And he'd hugged her fiercely, as she'd laughed and tousled his hair.

Suddenly furious with both the recall of that memory and the lies spoken about Qui-Gon, Anakin balled his fists once more. How dare Kenobi sully Master Qui-Gon's actions in battle with false accusations?

That Sith-spawn of a devil – now that he was no longer hiding his crying face (Anakin had hacked into the medical files and knew all his inability to control his emotions, knew of his despair and his bouts of tears) he was bragging about his so-called "deed of valor" and bad-mouthing both Qui-Gon and Anakin in the process. Just the thought of that made the boy scowl harder.

He should have killed him on Naboo, rather than Force-punching the ailing Jedi backwards. Had he hit a bit harder or Obi-Wan lain undiscovered a bit longer, he _would_ be long dead by now.

_He_ didn't care. He could have killed Kenobi without punishment. He'd had his instructions – they'd been rather well beaten into him. Oh, Kenobi's death wasn't the goal, at least not for some time as he understood it, but he would have been forgiven.

But his mother– she would be horrified if she ever found out. She would forgive him even as she scolded him for indulging his temper, but not if he deliberately took the life of another.

He deflated suddenly, torn between making his mother proud – and defending Qui-Gon's honor.

Honor was the only thing he had worth fighting for. Nothing was freely given to him; he'd had to fight and bite and scratch for everything.

Even when doing what he loved most – racing. Racing was freedom, racing was to be unshackled from the weight that tied his soul to soil, those chains of slavery –free to soar and free to dream.

And those like the Dug who dared to sully with that joy, to interfere with his flight, earned his enmity. He would steal from them what they would steal from him. He would have his retribution and take his destiny into his own hands. Taken in memory back to his win on Tatooine, one small hand shot triumphantly upwards to punch the air in jubilation.

"You're going down this time, Sebulba!"

A young initiate passing by squawked and tumbled to the floor, a tray of food cascading over the hapless youngster.

"Padawan Skywalker!" Half-holding a hand over her mouth as if to hold in laughter or a reprimand, a Jedi Anakin didn't recognize hurried over and squatted by the young girl, glancing up at Anakin at the same time. "Might I ask what you were doing?"

Anakin's eyes slowly cleared. He glanced down at the child he had almost punched with his wild throw and true contrition flared within his eyes. Even stupid hero-worshipping initiates didn't deserve such humiliation – and she wasn't even one of the stupid ones. He didn't even know her name.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. Helping the girl to her feet and grabbing a napkin, he dabbed and wiped her face and hands as other younglings around them giggled and pointed. Anakin's ears burned almost as much as the young initiate's face, but he set aside the humiliation to comfort her. "Would you – uh, let me, I'll fetch you another tray of food, okay? Same thing?" They both looked at the mess on the floor and he let out a nervous giggle. "Minus the dirt, of course. Hi, I'm Anakin."

She stared at him and Anakin wondered if he had some of her food on his head or something. Finally, she said, rather slowly, "I know. You're the new padawan, Master Jinn's padawan." After another hesitation she added, "I'm Trish – Trishana Knothlis. Why are you being nice?"

Anakin hadn't expected that. He was nice to those who were nice to him and so far she hadn't made fun of him or ignored him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You haven't been nice to anyone except Master Jinn."

Refusing his offer to get her a new tray of food, she turned on her heel and returned to the food line, leaving Anakin staring after her in shock. He half rose from his seat and shouted after her, "I tried but no one wanted to be nice to me!"

With a mature dignity seldom seen in younglings of her age – at least outside the Temple – she turned to face him and uttered truth.

"You didn't give anyone a chance, Anakin Skywalker. Did you?"

They didn't give _him_ a chance. No one did.

Yet still, his eyes fell.

* * *

Dust motes floated in the air, disturbed by his passing as BB came to a stop and settled down on his stomach to peer through a vent. A broad-shouldered man, he was not comfortable physically in a space that was little bigger than him, but discomfort was no stranger to him. He grinned; perhaps "discomfort" was something he could "pass on" to the hated one.

To Kenobi.

After all, sticks could easily break bones in the right hands.

But alas: no. He sighed, constrained by his assignment. He would watch and listen, and hope an errant blow at least bruised the man below him, so blind and deaf to the watcher above. Of course young Skywalker hated the Jedi nearly as much as he, though for much different reasons. Perhaps he could be persuaded into some "physical therapy" for Kenobi.

BB giggled at the thought. Technically, that would not be violating his orders, not if he was not the means, only the instigator.

Or Jinn himself – could he stir him up by spreading rumors that Kenobi was abusing Skywalker?

That would be rather problematic, even he had to admit. Kenobi's form of abuse to others was subtle – he polluted the Force with his very presence. He did not lay violent hands on any life form, oh, no, but his caustic wit and sharp tongue and most inconvenient limbs had not earned him many friends in his young life.

But for some reason these younglings adored him. _Master Obi-Wan_. BB's lips curled in derision; younglings had no sense at all. Yes, indeed, they actually liked Kenobi, and worse, respected him.

That would change. Oh, it would change.

"Master Obi-Wan, are you going to take the trials soon?" It was some fresh faced kid who asked, very solemn.

He quickly smothered a snort. Kenobi – facing the trials? Kenobi, the Force-blind, Kenobi the weak? Kenobi looked surprised, then pained, and finally composed, a look BB knew to be his containment of "inappropriate emotion," his shell and his protection. It only protected his public face. The churning emotions of his younger days might no longer spill over into action and words, but to those who knew, knew to look in his eyes and past the stillness, it was quite visible.

Inside.

Anger, frustration, bitterness…oh those emotions so churned within. Even if Kenobi had managed to master their expression, he could not forever contain them within until release to the Force – he no longer had that outlet.

Jinn had done that, all on his own.

"I - no." His voice was grave with a hint of curiosity. Ah, that was the voice of a senior padawan half-friends with and half-instructor to the younger, neither a master nor a knight, not an age mate or confidante – in family terms, an "older brother" some years older and more experienced than his far younger "siblings."

"But you – you killed a Sith!"

"Ah." His voice was quiet and self-contained. "And what does killing have to do with qualifying one for the trials, for knighthood?"

"Oh." The young speaker's head turned sideways, glancing at his classmates. "Not the killing, Master Obi-Wan. That you fought the Sith."

A slight smile made its way onto his face. "Ohhh. That I did not turn tail and run off in my fright?"

Sarcasm? Amusement? BB wasn't sure what laced the words. The younglings stirred and a few quietly giggled.

"You weren't scared. Jedi aren't scared."

"Indeed they are and indeed I was." Beebe saw the eyebrow lift. "Fear unrestrained can lead a Jedi to act badly; fear acknowledged and released restrains recklessness and infuses one's actions with caution. Being a Jedi is moving past the fear, is it not?"

_Still the sniveling coward!_ But even BB had to admit, a bit courageous to admit the truth of his cowardice, even if to a class full of younglings.

That admission galled him no end.

* * *

Kenobi teaching younglings?

If what Qui-Gon swore was truth was indeed so – the Council was making a dreadful mistake. The Council never made dreadful mistakes. They only made the normal mistakes that any committee or council consisting of sentient life would from time to time – or perhaps far more frequently, if one believed Qui-Gon Jinn. Yes, there were the occasional lapses in judgment, times when the Council was too timid when boldness was required or bold times reticence would serve better.

But if Kenobi had not been purified or certified free of any potential taint, he had no business being around the younger Jedi. Ni'sha de Nichoise hesitated, and gazed after the chattering initiates who had passed her in the corridor.

She turned back only to see Kenobi emerging from a classroom, rubbing a shoulder. He immediately bowed and meant to pass by, but she blocked his path and studied him. He shifted uncomfortably then held still for her scrutiny.

"You're instructing, Kenobi."

"Yes, Master –I'm assisting Master Danner. I am on restricted duty. Medical restriction."

"Qui-Gon did not mention that." And she found that interesting. Just as interesting as the suddenly shuttered expression in his eyes at the mention of his former master's name and neither thought as interesting as the hint, the merest sense, of pain quickly suppressed. She must have imagined that last, for his voice was quite devoid of inflection when he finally responded.

"I'm sure he did not; he has taken no interest in my welfare for some weeks now."

"You are no longer his padawan."

Blue-gray eyes met hers steadily. "Yes, Master, however I was at the time of my injury."

So. She had felt compelled to point out the ending of that flawed master/padawan relationship and he in turn felt compelled to dispute her point.

"You sound bitter, Padawan."

One eyebrow nearly lifted as if in confusion, then he dropped his gaze and in his soft voice offered, "My apologies, Master. I meant no slur against Master Jinn, nor the Force which commanded him to set me aside." His eyes sought hers once more, yet holding no real apology for his earlier words. A tiny crack, there, in his otherwise commendable composure. No, all was not serene beneath; something simmered there. Resentment? Jealousy?

"If I have transgressed against the Force, its punishment is fitting – I am a Jedi in name only and my status uncertain. Master Windu has been kind enough to take charge of me in a temporary capacity while things are sorted out."

That intrigued Ni'sha. _Things_ – to be sorted out. Did that mean Kenobi _was_ on probation once again?

He chose not to explain his words further. She chose not to pursue it. She would prefer the full truth, not his version of it.

He rubbed his shoulder once more.

"You are yet unhealed from your last mission?" She nodded to the shoulder. She wasn't sure why she asked other than it seemed the polite thing to do. She still didn't like Kenobi. He was too self-contained, too impersonal. He had let his former master down too many times to be forgiven, even if his failures were human and not dark side.

A tiny smile and shake of his head was her response. "A somewhat energetic class and I did not correctly anticipate an errant blow. It is nothing serious."

"A youngling got the better of you, Padawan?" She was surprised. She had thought Kenobi was more skilled than that – he should be more skilled. No senior padawan should ever be caught out by this particular age group. Ever.

"The initiate herself was surprised by how readily the Force came to her grasp and accelerated her swing, one that I was unable to counter adequately." At her raised eyebrow, he somewhat elaborated. "My grasp is entirely absent, Master."

Absent – as in blocked, gone, or removed?

"I should find it distressing and I am sure I would were I healthy, but my strength and stamina is below par, my…," he hesitated, "my mental and physical equilibrium has been – somewhat compromised and so it is just one thing amidst others to contend with."

Other than that his clothing hung a little more loosely on him than normal, he appeared to be in relatively good health. True, there were shadows so deeply hidden as to be almost invisible behind his remarkable eyes, but were they of pain or secrets? Ni'sha knew she would get no answers from Kenobi even were she to ask. In fact, perhaps the answers were known only to the Force.

"I wish you a speedy recovery to full health, then, Padawan."

Kenobi looked a bit surprised. "Thank you, Master," he said gravely and bowed.

All perfectly polite; all perfectly normal yet something was off and far from perfectly right. There was something hidden within Kenobi, waiting to make itself known. She wasn't as strong in the Living Force as Qui-Gon, but she was far stronger than the rest of the Order.

Strong enough to sense whatever sent prickles along her Force sense.

Where else could it be emanating from, except Kenobi?


	43. Frustration Before Answers

Note: reviews don't come to my email and I haven't searched them out for various reasons - but I do want to** thank **all those who do take the time. Now that my cast is off and various other things a bit under control, I may someday get to review whatever words you may have chosen to share.

* * *

**Chapter 43. Frustration Before Answers**

Nothing.

Yet there had to be. Answers were there, just waiting to be discovered, waiting for the right flash of insight or piece of missing data. Jorak rubbed his eyes and repeated his personal mantra: Things are never as they appear!

Corollary: When all else fails, return to the beginning and review what you know. And what Healer Jorak knew – really _knew_ – rather than surmised was a lot of nothing. Disentangling and tracing all the fading impressions from the minds he had studied indicated an unknown entity common to all. A faint surface impression was certainly possible, arising from a Naboo guardsman or physician's aid, which was why he had returned to Naboo.

And to be thorough, he had decided he should go to Tatooine as well before returning to the Temple. From what he understood, Kenobi had not left the ship – there had been no interaction except comlink between the two Jedi during the stay other than Jinn's bringing the new hyperdrive back before retrieving the boy – and there had been no interaction between the Jedi's party and the boy until they had left the planet.

But there had been interaction of a sort – between Qui-Gon and the Sith, a battle at first unobserved. The boy, Anakin, had run to the ship and alerted Obi-Wan and the crew. From that point on, between the pilots, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, Jorak and the Council had a pretty good picture of what had transpired.

Could the Sith have mentally tampered with Qui-Gon Jinn's mind, introduced a mind-altering toxin – no, he slumped back. There had been no trace of a chemical toxin and the only observed organic damage had been to Obi-Wan.

Fused, like an overloaded circuit, the Master Healer had muttered when Kenobi had been examined back at the Temple.

Fused – well, that could be explained by the combination of power and power backlash Kenobi experienced. From what he understood, Kenobi was already burning out from the sheer amount of Force he had been channeling through himself and when one added in the stinging backlash of the bond's severing – well, it was a Force miracle that Kenobi hadn't been reduced to a mindless wreck of a man.

He leaned back in his seat; idly listening to all his notes from the beginning, when he was first notified of the "debacle on Naboo" and asked to lend his special talents to unraveling something that baffled even the Jedi Council. This datapad held more surmises and theories than actual results, so far, but perhaps the larger computer in the Temple might make something of all this – he had already started to transmit some of the material back to the Temple.

When he had first discovered his unique abilities, many years prior, he had tried to categorize Force impressions via line graphs or key wording specifics such as intensity, frequency and the like. Such was an imperfect method; the mind filed impressions while the computer filed data. In some cases, he had recorded brain patterns and tried to superimpose Force signatures and echoes and had a small measure of success correlating such.

Jorak had contemplated and meditated on the patterns before the impressions faded entirely away; isolating the strands had proven difficult. Even the known patterns, of Jinn and Kenobi in particular, were off, "tainted" as it were. Force patterns were nothing easily committed to a computer database; not easily searchable.

He sighed, and set that line of thought aside for the moment. There had been something about the bond – old and new – within Qui-Gon's mind he had been wishing to revisit. Before Qui-Gon had been released he had run another scan; on young Anakin as well, as part of the physical exams the Council had ordered.

He listened to his final entry of a day before, lost in thought.

"_All three subjects are scheduled for check-ups within the next few days. I have decided to run a complete genetic profile and cross type as well as update…"_

* * *

For no reason other than it was expected, Obi-Wan scowled as the needle entered his veins. "First you swab my cheek; then pull everything out of me you can think of and then you administer the coup de grace with a needle."

"Oh, hush, Obi-Wan," Bant replied, patting him on the arm consolingly.

"If I 'hushed up' you'd really think I was sick and stick me with even more needles," he grumbled. Bant laughed and conceded that point.

Obi-Wan grinned back: then tapped his head. "I thought the idea was that there was something wrong up here, so why all the blood work and stuff?"

"This is a very thorough and comprehensive routine physical, my friend, that's why. Overkill, you might say, but there's some younger padawans-in-training who can use some lab work so the Master Healer has decided you get to be the guinea fowl. Your contributions to future generations of healers will be greatly appreciated by the entire medical team."

"Ooh, so dramatic!" Obi-Wan teased her.

"Well, not just you– you have to share the limelight because we're doing the same for – ah, oh," she coughed.

"Oh." Obi-Wan nodded. He reached over and tapped Bant's knee. "Don't be afraid to mention his name. Master Jinn. Or his – Anakin. I can't flinch forever from hearing their names, besides I've got a lot of names to call on if I need to – Garen, Master Windu – Bant." He winked at her.

"I come after Master Windu?" Bant never could carry off pretend-offended, but she tried anyway. Of course it didn't fool Obi-Wan. It never did.

"I saved the best for last."

"Still the charmer, I see." Bant tweaked his nose. "Get dressed now and get out of here – see you at last meal?"

* * *

Twisted, entwined, warped – tangled, matted and knotted. A mess. A frustration, an anomaly, an irregularity…no matter how many synonyms Jorak threw at it, it remained stubbornly infuriatingly glaringly _complicated!_

What that little mental tantrum out of the way….

Head tilted back, Jorak reflected on what nagged and tickled at him, these Force signatures so unexpectedly convoluted and enmeshed, master and former padawan – and newest padawan.

Qui-Gon Jinn had gone so far this time as to even defy his own standards of conduct, like a man possessed. _Out with the old, in with the new_….

Signatures…bonds – wait! There had been something about the bond – old and new – within Qui-Gon's mind he had been wishing to revisit as well.

With growing excitement, he remembered the newer bond he had found in Qui-Gon's mind, but not Obi-Wan's – the shadowy tendrils… his eyes suddenly widened and he leaned forward, an old memory niggling at his mind, demanding his attention. His mind made a sudden, dizzying, impossible leap…that he should reject as the wild ravings of a tired mind but could not. "No, that is not possible," he murmured.

It couldn't be, could it? Ridiculous - yet, still.

But was it – impossible?

Inform us of any theories, he'd been told. He reached for his comlink. Mace wasn't available, but Yoda would be should he care to hold or call back.

The ship's navicomputer beeped, accepting an incoming call. Deep in thought, he reached for the comm button, ready to spout a wild theory at Yoda, one he was already coding for transmission, a backup routed and relayed through a secondary relay as backup.

"Master Yoda?"

Static was his only response. Jorak raised his head and blinked. It finally registered on the healer's mind.

Why the navcomp - he had programmed no new data.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn was normally a serene man and an even more serene Jedi - other than those times he was arguing with the Council, as he well admitted. He lived in the moment, dismissing the past as long gone and the future as not yet arrived.

But his dreams continued to gnaw at him during the night. They were reminders of a past he was beyond and perhaps a warning of a future to come.

It was getting harder to dismiss them and concentrate on the present – on Anakin, for the child who bore the burdens of the past and expectations of the future on too-small shoulders. The whispers were there, at the edge of his mind, reminding him, always reminding him, that Anakin was the Force's highest precedent and thus his as well. No one and nothing else mattered.

Only Anakin.

Yet ever who he was, some part of him rebelled against that proclamation. He knew others mattered, even if not as much.

He _knew_ this.

And wondered why the Force was so insistent otherwise.

Niggling doubts, brief stabs of regret, pained protests while tossing in restless slumber thus were symptoms of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn's failure to accept the Force's will - of his human failing. Never before had he been so assaulted by such feelings except when he had not been receptive to the Force and suffered that entity's rebukes.

Yet when he opened himself to the Force and asked _what would you have me do_ there was only one answer, one name, thrumming in response: Anakin. To each question, each doubt, each fear, only _Anakin_. That left but one, no one he could unburden himself of his doubts and fears except that one: Ni'sha. She alone was unbiased and fair-minded, not hostile and dismissive like Yoda and Mace who had already aligned themselves against him.

How would she interpret these dreams – as forewarnings? Visions? Or merely as by-products of his subconscious, a mind not satisfied with the answers of a conscious mind?

He hated these reoccurring nightmares, be they true or false, for they held the power to destroy him with their truths about his former padawan – and of him. Was Obi-Wan all that he feared, or nothing that he feared?

For in the depths of the dark, he knew he had cared for the boy, cared so much that the horrible truth hurt perhaps more than even Xanatos's betrayal had. The first had taken his love and betrayed it; the second had given his love long before it had been granted in return and had in turn been betrayed – no, no – that was wrong, wrong – had betrayed him rather than had been betrayed himself.

Obi-Wan - who had healed a man who had had no wish to be whole once more and who had again healed that same one as he had been sinking into the Force's eternal embrace.

Obi-Wan - his former padawan – now a dealer in death, a denizen of the dark.

Deep within himself, Qui-Gon shuddered, in some tiny part of himself that begged admittance to his cognizance. Once, he could not have even imagined such a possibility. Now – the impossible was possible, even if something within him rebelled against it, crying out to be heard.

His former padawan – an unrepentant murderer, a practitioner of the dark arts.

Everything within him rebelled against that thought except for one unsettling thought: Were these dreams a sending of the Force, a warning that his former padawan was indeed lost and a warning of what the future held? Had the taint gone that deep that Obi-Wan could someday commit such evil deeds?

Coolly practical, Ni'sha had been less horrified than he had been, for as she had reminded him, dreams were not reality and never had been.

"_Your fears for Anakin and your fear of Obi-Wan no doubt tangled in your subconscious." _

It was a reasonable explanation – if they were dreams. The whispers in his mind told him it was not _the_ explanation.

So though he was not prone to visions – he wondered if perhaps they were.

So he forced himself to relive the highs and the lows of the past few weeks, the joys and the sorrow, the happiness and the heartache, sharing it all with Ni'sha.

And all it had done was make him weary, so weary now- half ready to collapse as if all the battles were coming to a crescendo within him. If truth be told, even he was beginning to feel as if the entire Temple was out of sync, as if the arrival of the Chosen One had brought disharmony rather than heralding the harmony to come.

It had all started with Tatooine.

Inexplicably, the warm wash of the Force's welcome had first been felt by Obi-Wan, his less than ideally connected to the Living Force padawan. He'd sensed it in the young man's slight lean to its pull, the carefully attentive lines of his face and the puzzlement in his eyes as he'd turned to his master: curiosity, recognition, and confusion all battling for dominance. Concerned and seeking to reassure, he had laid a hand on the young man's arm and felt the same sensations, the same stirring of the Force as the valiant Naboo ship had broken free to the ever-sublime darkness of space – not emptiness, no, for where the Force was there was no such thing as emptiness, only the illusion of such and the veils had now parted.

He had known it at once. Destiny awaited.

He was the only one to embrace it. All the others – feared it. Denied it. Sought not balance, but the status quo, found refuge in the comfort of tradition without a thought to the cost to both one made of flesh and bone or for those he was born to save; held both he and it at arm's length.

A boy, for Force's sake – a gift from that same Force – not a piece of refuse to be eyed askance, treated with disdain and then discarded as unworthy of the recipient, but one be to celebrated and made welcome.

A boy – one with feelings, a boy with dreams and hopes, a boy once a slave now a savior to be.

A boy – one with feelings, a boy with dreams and hopes, like – like other boys before him; their images filling his mind's eye and grief filling his heart: one with locks so glossy black it was nearly iridescent, touched with a hint of the of waning day as twilight shifted towards dark and one with tawny hair the color of a Rishiki tree's bark burnished red gold with twilight's warmth, boys he had loved and boys he had lost. Their loss wrenched at his heart even now.

With difficulty, he banished thoughts of other boys, of other dreams and hopes. His hand trembled until he had himself in hand again. The Force had led him to Anakin…it had beckoned with glorious joy and triumphant news that he had yet to unravel.

Nerves a-tingle with anticipation for that destiny to reveal itself. As euphoria receded into practicality, he had come to realize that Destiny was as well a time of Trial – for the Jedi Order, for Obi-Wan, and for himself – a trial in the form of a small, lonely boy with gifts beyond imagination. Would the Order adhere to the Force – or to tradition?

The failure was spectacular and illuminating. There was still time for the Order to embrace change. It would begin with embracing Anakin Skywalker. It was too late for Obi-Wan Kenobi; he had rejected the Force's gift and in return, the Force had rejected him as Qui-Gon Jinn had on the cold floor of Naboo: it had asked the Master to step aside from the Padawan who would not.

It hadn't had to be that way.

Not if Obi-Wan been the man and the Jedi the master had thought him to be. But he had been less, far less.

He had elevated his own wishes and desires over the Force and over the need of the galaxy and the shock of that betrayal still reverberated within the master's heart and mind: he whom had seemed destined to overcome his less than auspicious early days and exceed expectations under the tutelage of a master who had grown fond – and complacent.

_Oh, Obi-Wan – I had such high hopes of you…why, my padawan, why did you disappoint me?_

Obi-Wan had heard the Force and heard his master and the message was clear – Obi-Wan had served the Force's purpose and now it was time to step aside. It could have been as a knight, had he accepted it as the offer it had been. He would now be a knight, had not both the Council and the Padawan denied the Force and the trial become a measure of failure rather than success.

As always, thoughts of Obi-Wan brought him nothing but headache and heartache, for what he had thought he had once had and what had never been. The veil of illusion had been lifted, but the memory of false affection still plagued him with indecision – until the Force whispered that all was well and to trust in it.

Cherish Anakin.

Forget the one who came before.

But it seemed his unconscious mind could not let go; he could not obey the Force – he could not help but cry one word.

_Why_?

* * *

The one and only – and none too happy about that state – Sith Lord stared out a transparisteel window, hands clasped behind his back. He was thwarted and nothing thwarted him for long.

He could not gain access to Kenobi. Not yet, at any rate. He should have been an open book, his mind laid bare minus his normal shielding, easily penetrated by a Sith even from a distance. But the Force cocooned him, or perhaps the Jedi themselves.

It was an anomaly, an abomination.

It was intriguing.

Kenobi was a nothing who defeated Maul, a nobody sought by another powerful dark side user, an average Jedi padawan allowed to be a conduit of the Force to heal an all but dead Jedi master.

It meant Kenobi was more than nothing, something other than a nobody. But what?

He wanted Kenobi – to discover his secrets and pervert his feeble light. A broken shell of a man he had been on Naboo, an insect to be squashed but intuition told him to stay his hand. The dark side insisted he was a treasure waiting to be plundered. He might yet make deconstruct a diamond into coal, make a blade of persimmon out of barely tempered light.

A Child of Light would fall, only to arise, a Sith of Darkness.

In time, replaced by the swayed Chosen One no doubt, but the young boy was yet too untamed and wild. By the time he was ready two would battle for the title Sith. Only one would be left standing in the shadows, the other - would be devoured by it.

And he smiled.


	44. Fury Incarnate

Life has gotten me a bit behind on many things - the good news is I can type and therapy is going well for the almost-whole broken wrist.

Thanks to all who read...

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**Chapter 44.** **Fury Incarnate**

Sith's hells!

A low snarl echoed hollowly within the bowels of the Jedi Temple and a data pad smashed into a stone wall, shattered by the force of its impact. A once Jedi stood even more shattered, fury sizzling like molten lava breaching a rotted, dead forest.

A random chance, a curious riffling through the Order's files, idle speculation – and confirmation found therein. Twisted and hideous, the truth was as convoluted as it was obvious, once one knew what to look for.

BB - had been played and betrayed.

He had become complacent over the years, secure and confident in his place. Not a confidant, never a confidant, for he held his own secrets just as the Boss did. Such was to be expected, a benevolent and sharing boss, hell no; no, he had never once mistaken him for such.

But this – this was treachery. Lies and deceit: years in the making.

He had been groomed for years whilst another had been as well, albeit for a shorter time.

Sith's hells!

Oh, it was clear now. Too clear.

He had given the boss his loyalty for no reason other than he had been the first and only one to step in and provide a new life for a cast-off reject. Adjudged unworthy of an Order than valued conformity and timidity, this reject he had been could have been a powerful Jedi Knight by now – if not for Kenobi.

Kenobi, who had caused the ruination of his life, a life then given purpose by the boss.

A successful once-reject himself, the boss had continued BB's education in the ways of the Force even as he had given him direction and a job. He had turned a powerful boy into a far more powerful man and that man into a trusted aide and right hand man. A lie and a deception, in truth, easily seen now that he had been relegated from needed to useful, from collaborator to tool.

For he knew now he was never saved by the Boss, only given purpose. Not his own purpose, either, but another's.

He was tired of being used, of being underappreciated, of being a tool to wreck another man's vengeance against those whom he believed to have wronged him. BB had been wronged as well– he had his own vengeance to seek.

And would, at its proper time.

The story hidden in the files …what a massive deception was being perpetrated by the boss. An ancient prophecy, a convenient child, an easily duped Jedi master – oh, there were ways to use this.

Well, the boss didn't know just how cunning and duplicitous BB could be, how few scruples his so-called protégé had. Oh, there'd be no thanks from the Jedi should he expose the truth but the truth had to be valuable to someone.

Or, his lips curled in a feral smile – perhaps to himself.

He'd heard plenty. The Sith were not extinct and the Sith had risen. So, too, the Chosen One. There were possibilities there – for the Sith had been dealt a blow and the Jedi a deception.

But BB did not lack for ambition and he knew there was a Sith out there minus an apprentice. A readymade job opening with a clear path to the top – say in a few years or so.

Now to get his attention before the boss caught on….say, by removing a certain Chosen One, or more satisfying, a certain Jedi who had created that job opening?

Anakin, yes, young Anakin should be the sacrifice to appease his blood lust and the means to gain the Sith's favors. The transcendent fury of madness receded as BB's rational mind began planning.

Just how many bodies made for a proper job resume?

"Young Master Skywalker?"

A jolt of elation at being so addressed brought a smile to Beebe's face, loitering in a little used cross corridor. The boy was so predictable, so easily manipulated. He craved attention and praise, craved control and above all, craved security.

His mother alone had provided that last and even that would have been uncertain. Boy or mother, either would have been sold in seconds for the right currency. The mother probably had been sold onto her back more than once: a little extra income was appreciated by most slave owners and if some brat was begat of it, well, brats grew into labor or income, too.

Or into Jinn's precious discovery, the "Chosen One."

So even before the boss stepped in to shape the boy, he had been a walking thermal detonator in development– one whose instincts tugged him to helping others and one whose life experiences taught him to help only himself.

Lessons reinforced by the boss's many absences over the years.

But the boy was young yet, still malleable and not necessarily the viper in the bosom of his enemies. By a twist of fate or Force he had been discovered by he who was to be his victim and his destiny reshaped into prophecy.

And what the boss didn't know was that his finely honed weapon was losing his edge and seeking his heart, the conflict within expressed in jealousy and possessiveness, into arrogance to hide doubt, to the outward expression of rage to hide fear.

And for the Jedi master – affection and trust was replacing the boy's wariness. It was time to startle the prongbuck into watching the hand that fed it for the betrayal. Now, now it was Beebe's turn at manipulation, for him to step into the role of puppet master.

Disruption and mayhem, distrust and mischief were both means and an end of itself.

The game – started now.

"Still Master Jinn's padawan are you?" he asked, adding a wink and a hand on the small shoulders. The boy's breath hitched and he nodded, wide-eyed. Beebe let out a carefully calculated sigh of relief. "That's good; I'd heard that some Jedi think he's changed his mind, regrets giving up Kenobi. There's rumors that he can't stop thinking about him, that that faraway look he gets in his eyes sometimes is a dead giveaway."

The shoulder under his hand tensed; fear and anger flooded the boy. So much unfettered emotion for a Jedi. He almost _tut-tutted_.

"No, no, Master Qui-Gon wouldn't do that! He hates him."

"Does he? Has he said so?"

The boy nodded frantically. "He doesn't speak about him; he gets a weird look on his face if anyone mentions him – oh!"

Letting that jolt of fear simmer into a slow boil, Beebe shrugged. "I don't believe it, myself, or the rumor that instead he's looking for a new apprentice." He grinned and added in a jocular tone, "I honestly don't understand some Jedi's sense of humor. Macabre, I'd say. Not quite satisfied, shopping for an improved padawan …why, your Master would never do such a thing. He would never discard one padawan for another, especially when he promised to guide that one to knighthood – well, certainly not twice, anyway. He's far too honorable a Jedi to go back on his word, right?"

The barb struck home, for the blood drained from the boy's face even as sparkles of anger honed to a vibroblade's micron-thin edge flared within sapphire eyes. Fury and fear nearly overwhelmed the boy, but to Beebe's surprise, were somehow disciplined into abeyance.

_Well taught, Boss, well taught. He'll husband them until he's ready to unleash them._

"He wouldn't do that to me, I'm _special_," Anakin growled, drawing himself up to his full height. "He said so."

The boy believed this. Nearly, but it only took a miniscule amount of doubt to fester, and fester it would. Beebe shrugged and somehow managed to twist what nearly was a leer into the semblance of a teasing grin.

"Yes, well, Master Jinn's word means much, doesn't it?" He patted the boy on the shoulder and glided off.

* * *

He wouldn't do that to me – I'm the Chosen One. He chose me. Me!

Anakin stood in a taut ball of disciplined fury, hands clenched at his sides and angry tears trapped behind his eyelids. He did not dare let them be displayed. Tears were a weakness, tears were a sign of vulnerability, tears were an invitation to pain except when summoned to serve a purpose.

"_Qui-Gon Jinn is your enemy, Anakin, as he is mine. He will pretend affection even as he plots his betrayal. Be wary. The Jedi use deceit and deception to make others weak."_

No. He didn't want to believe it. Qui-Gon loved him. Loved him so much he threw away someone else he had once loved. Qui-Gon denied it and even believed it, but the shadows in his eyes spoke otherwise. The holopics of he who had come before had been flung aside, but remained when they could have been discarded. That name was never spoken, but that face troubled his master's dreams….

…and the realization hit him – that affection lingered still, unacknowledged and hidden, but there, still there.

And as long as _he_ was there, Anakin could not reign supreme within, a place he had come to believe was his and his alone.

For love shared was love halved. Love, to a slave, was as water to a parched man – something to greedily partake of and to drink of wholeheartedly until the thirst was salved. To share was to risk not having enough.

And Anakin had learned long ago to fight for every drop and every morsel.

He needed to free Qui-Gon from that one for good and claim the master as his alone. He would be sure that he was the only one in Qui-Gon's mind and Qui-Gon the only one in his: the bond sacrosanct to just the two of them.

The same with his heart.

No more being torn in two. He could achieve his dreams – not by sacrificing Qui-Gon Jinn, but by sacrificing the one who haunted him. By choosing affection over harshness, by embracing his destiny at the side of the man who had handed it to him.

_He is your enemy and I shall teach you how to destroy him_.

But he was instead taught how to hate and the man he was taught to hate had only taught him how to love. Unless, of course, it were a deception, a lie, a trick.

Kenobi's fault, for carving a niche in the Jedi master's heart that had not healed. Rip that out, rip him away, and all would be well.

Qui-Gon would be his alone.

"_He would take Kenobi back, if the man asked."_

No, no, and no. Would he? He would not! But Beebe thinks – no! Anakin's lips thinned. He needed proof.

His first teacher had promised to make him strong, to make him powerful. He had accepted the teachings so in time he could free his mother and free the slaves, punish the wicked and sinful.

But it was Iego who paid the price and his mother who was punished.

His second teacher had set aside his student and taken Anakin away from the yolk of slavery, but he had left his mother behind to toil in servitude. Was his Jedi master any better? Were his soft words any better than the harsh hand of discipline of the first?

Both used him for their own ends.

Better to be seduced by the silken leash than coerced by the hissing whip?

He angrily wiped his lashes dry. He would play his own game now. He would choose the victims and he would choose his own path. For now, he would play along and learn what he could, for the powerful boy of nine would be even more powerful at nineteen.

Then he would make the rules.

He was destined, for he was chosen.

* * *

Yoda was the first to sense it, followed a fraction of a second later by Mace Windu. A tremble, a surge in the Force. An icy chill in the Force, a shiver of foreboding.

"What was that?" Mace asked quietly.

"Darkness." His voice was grim, his eyes already closed as he sought within the Force for the proper question and hence the key to the answer. He finally sighed and sought Mace's eyes. "Gone now it is, shrouded and hidden, but nearby it is. Or was."

"The Sith? Probing the Temple?"

Yoda hunched over his gimer stick. "Possible, it is. If that strong he is…." He raised troubled eyes and blinked.

If the Sith was that strong, Force help them all. And perhaps their greatest weapon, still a boy – and unallied as yet to their side.


	45. A Darth of Bad Feelings

**_Aha, a chapter to get the hate flowing - but don't get too attached to the hate._ **

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**Chapter 45.** **A Darth of "Bad Feelings"**

Bad feelings. No one thought it worthy of thought, not even a moment's hesitation, that Obi-Wan had not had one of his bad feelings in some time.

Certainly not the young Jedi in question. Not Mace Windu. Not even Master Yoda.

While oft dismissed by his one-time master as a byproduct of an overactive and anxious imagination, they were unrecognized illusory warnings of the Force. Many Jedi had at least a limited amount of precognition; in Obi-Wan it manifested as vague and formless forewarnings. Properly heeded and nurtured as he matured along with the rest of his Force skills, it would have in time manifested itself as one of this Jedi's particular talents. It was instead stunted and atrophied, a remnant of its potential, too long maligned and misunderstood.

And fed by the Force itself it was now all but absent. In its place there were only troublesome dreams and lingering uncertainties.

So this day, as on those days preceding, no premonitions surfaced and no forewarnings of the day's tumultuous events surfaced.

Crouched low, Obi-Wan adjusted a small initiate's hand position on a padded stick, smiled and tousled the small head. "There you go," he said. He turned to the next initiate and froze.

Oh, this wasn't good…not good at all. His eyes swung to find Master Danner, only to remember she'd comm'd she'd be late this first day back and to start without her.

"_From what I hear, you don't need me, anyway." _Her voice had been teasing and he had been shyly pleased. Master Windu had only looked up from his datapad and shook his head without comment.

He tried to force a look of inquisitive surprise on his face to counteract the sudden lurch of his stomach.

"Hi, Obi-Wan," Anakin chirped, only a hint of his amusement and disdain coloring his words.

"Does – does your master know you're here?" Obi-Wan fought the urge to back away. This could not – would not – end well. Master Jinn would not take kindly to "Obi-Wan's interference" with his padawan. His former master's ultimatum had not been passed on to him, but it had not needed to be. He remembered the rebukes and reprimands hanging over him like a dark shroud on the second trip to Naboo, when he was still Qui-Gon's padawan. He remembered the harsh words cautioning him to keep his distance from the Chosen One in the Room of a Thousand Fountains as well, when only memories of that relationship remained.

Both before and after he had been severed from his master's life, the warning was clear. _Stay away from Anakin Skywalker_. Unsaid, but just as clear: _stay away from me_.

With a shake of his head, Anakin confided, "Master Qui-Gon knows I wanted to change my class schedule, is all. I haven't seen much of you recently, and you're sort of like my padawan brother, aren't you?" He beamed at the older Jedi, before biting his lip and looking at his toes. "Or are you still a padawan – what are you, Obi-Wan?"

He looked up, a shy smile on his face and malice in his eyes.

"I'm – I'm…," Obi-Wan swallowed hard.

Anakin leaned in close and whispered, "A failure? A disgrace to the Jedi?" He stepped back, smiling as the blood drained from Obi-Wan's face. "Oh, dear, Obi-Wan –are you okay? Is it something I said? Perhaps you should sit down."

He took the Jedi's arm and pushed him into a seat. "I'll get you something to drink." Under his breath he added, "I haven't seen you cry lately – maybe you're dehydrated from all those crybaby tears you've been shedding."

"Why?" Obi-Wan stared after the boy as he dashed for the promised liquid, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Qui-Gon's pride and joy, the "Chosen One" by both the Force and his former master – why would such a favored one torment him? Worse, who would believe him should he speak up, tell the boy such was not proper behavior? It would be he who would be reprimanded for not being understanding enough or, perhaps, even be accused of precipitating the behavior by at least one Jedi – the only one who could intervene: the boy's master, Qui-Gon Jinn.

Breathe…they were words, only words.

But they hurt. They brought back unwanted memories, of despair, of betrayal and of hurt. The disbelief in first his heart and then his mind, the physical agony that swamped the joy of finding his true connection to the Force and the disjointed ache of betrayal and anger as his mind was ravaged even while striving to save the man who had so callously rejected him.

Focused so tightly, he didn't register the arrival of Master Danner nor her hurried footsteps until a warm palm was placed against his forehead.

"Obi-Wan, are you okay?"

Letting out a silent sigh, Obi-Wan dredged up a faint smile and rubbed a temple. _Just let me gather myself; I'll be fine. It was just the shock – I shouldn't have reacted at all, let alone have been knocked off my mental balance_.

"Yes, thank you." His voice was weaker than he would have liked, but at least the words came out without an embarrassing wobble. It wasn't quite the truth, not at the moment, but it would be, once he breathed in, then out, another few times. He knew how to find his center even if he hadn't quite found it yet. He would, though, any second now.

Master Danner carefully scrutinized him and then nodded, as if not quite convinced but willing to accept his word.

"Here's some water," Anakin said pleasantly as he reappeared, offering a glass and a glance of feigned concern.

"Thank you, that was very kind of you, Anakin." Master Danner threw a puzzled look at the padawan, clearly wondering at his presence in this class, but choosing not to address it at the moment. When Obi-Wan didn't reach for the water, she put the glass into the young man's hand and curled his fingers around it. Her worried frown returned. "Should I call someone?"

"No, no, I'm – I'm fine. Really." Obi-Wan raised the glass and drank, his hands slightly shaking, much to his dismay. Some of the water spilled down his chin. The pain of those words would sink in later, he suspected, but for now his mind was still reeling from the shock of the words.

He wiped an unsteady hand over his face and slowly stood.

The gesture spoke as clearly as words would have. He wanted to divert attention from himself and back to the class. With a wordless nod, the instructor stood and patted his arm as he managed a smile and a steady step back to the largely unaware group of initiates. Feeling Master Danner's concerned eyes on him, he straightened his shoulders and let the enthusiasm of the younglings tug the corners of his lips upwards into a smile.

A façade of normalcy masked his internal loss of equilibrium as he strove to make the outer reality his internal as well.

_Live in the moment, Obi-Wan_.

Qui-Gon's words echoed through his mind. He'd be hearing that phrase for the rest of his life; he'd heard it nearly daily until – until the day he was no longer Qui-Gon's padawan. Once, he had thought he'd be laughing over that and other "masterly phrases" over a cup of tea with his master: two veterans of raising padawans, sharing chuckles and stories.

That future was gone now.

_Let it go, Obi-Wan; that moment has already passed. You're stronger than this_…focus on the attentive learners, these younglings who are so eager to learn, who look beyond what he was to who he was.

They deserved his best. They deserved his fullest attention. They led him to _this_ moment, where only they counted and where, submerged into teaching and guiding, he found satisfaction and happiness.

As the class continued, he felt the knot within him loosen.

He moved amongst the younglings, offering tips, sometimes taking a soft stick and demonstrating some move or other, falling into the rhythms and paces of the usual and commonplace.

He had only forgotten one thing, while living in the moment: each moment flowed into the next bringing something new, perhaps unexpected. Without an eye to the future, something could be overlooked or forgotten; something that should have been anticipated could become instead a nasty shock.

Such was the pitfall of living solely in the moment.

Time came to a stop as he came face to face with the next one in the rotation. He had introduced this himself. First drills, then paired initiate drills, then joining the rotation to provide some one-on-one instructor time for each student.

And Anakin now faced him; a strange light in his eyes.

_No – no, I can't do this – I can't. _Obi-Wan stepped back and dropped his eyes, only to crash onto the floor as a stick slammed into his side. He found himself blinking at the ceiling.

"Wow!" Anakin exclaimed in surprise. "You sure went down hard for such a soft swing." He giggled.

Obi-Wan pressed a hand to his side. _Soft?_

"Sometimes it doesn't take much – if the blow is placed precisely," he answered, climbing slowly to his feet.

He bowed and turned to move away. He would not engage the boy. He wanted to distance himself from him. A confrontation would do far more harm than good.

"Like this?"

He turned and barely blocked the blow aimed at his knee.

"I will not engage you, Anakin. Your master would not want that."

"Aw, it's only play and no one can get hurt. I will fight you, Obi-Wan. It's your choice if you fight back."

The disarming charm was palpable, the grin bright and engaging, but there was open challenge in the eyes aimed directly at him, hidden from the others.

He would rue this later, he thought, but the boy was so certain he had the edge on Obi-Wan. Anakin didn't have the training to best a senior padawan or a knight, and while he didn't want to hurt the boy, Obi-Wan had few options. One was to turn his back, walk away – and without the Force to warn him of an attack from behind, he would be on the mat once more.

In pain. Once more, in pain.

"So it is," he said pleasantly, raising his stick into a defensive position and waiting. The light in Anakin's eyes intensified.

Anakin jabbed with the stick. Obi-Wan slipped sideways, letting the blow pass through the space where he had been. He ducked under the next swing and pivoted.

"Afraid to fight back, coward?" The taunt was low, too low for the rest of the class to hear.

His answer was loud enough for the class to hear. "This is a demonstration of how a Jedi chooses to fight, padawan. You have chosen to go on the offensive, thinking such will be more than sufficient. However, one can end a bout with a good defense."

He stepped into the next swing, at the last second again pivoting and tapping Anakin on the shoulder.

Anakin exploded into movement, infuriated. Untrained, his blows were wild yet powerful. They didn't look that way, Obi-Wan knew, as he easily evaded them, but they held real strength behind them. If they connected, they would create a massive bruise; might easily break a bone even.

"Enough, Anakin." He whirled and dropped the boy with a well-placed blow and stood over him.

Cheers and whistles began to erupt from the class. Obi-Wan raised his hand; the silent prompt brought nearly instantaneous quiet. Vocal displays of this manner were discouraged but this age group still needed reminders from time to time.

Carefully neutral in an attempt to not further antagonize the boy, Obi-Wan reached a hand down to help Anakin up. "You have great strength and determination, padawan. With time and training you will learn not to leave yourself open as you do now. One can take advantage of that," he said simply, holding the boy's eyes. He offered to help the boy up, but Anakin refused his hand and pushed himself upright; his eyes flashing fire.

Once on his feet he bowed jerkily, a gesture that didn't fool Obi-Wan.

He shivered suddenly. Anakin's eyes held a threat, a real threat. The sense of danger, of wrongness, he had felt upon the first meeting flashed back. But who would believe him given a choice between the damaged padawan – or the exceptional one?

Somehow the rest of the class passed without incident. Master Danner pursed her lips and murmured something about bad scheduling and she'd check into it as they tidied up afterward, then left Obi-Wan with a pat on the shoulder.

He nodded then sank into a seat, suddenly weary. He continued to sit, head in his hands, long after the class ended, feeling totally unsettled.

He hadn't been exactly welcoming to Anakin at first, he had to admit, but his animosity had never been directed at the boy, only at the situation into which they had both been placed. He had earned the boy's coolness, even if he had tried to make amends, but what exactly had he done to earn his enmity?

Anakin had gained everything and he had lost everything.

Even now he was still struggling to make sense of his past and his future, to find his sense of self. His thoughts were still disjointed, his emotions in disarray. Chaos ruled him, only held within bounds by intense effort.

Those boundaries had been breached, by words that were only now beginning to sink in.

"_Or are you still a padawan – what are you, Obi-Wan?" _

-A Jedi who wasn't whole, who couldn't access the Force.

"_A failure? A disgrace to the Jedi?" _

-Was that how they saw him, not just his former master?

"_Afraid to fight back, coward?"_

-He had stood up for himself, but he hadn't fought back. Hadn't he?

Oh, Force, he just wished he knew his place in the Order, if he even had one still. He took so much and gave so little. Mace – he had taken him in, wiped his tears - .

A sudden noise caught his attention; a voice snarled, "I warned you to keep away from him but you just had to humiliate him in front of his peers. You're a bully and a coward. A disgrace to us all."

He looked up just in time to see a fist exploding towards his face.


	46. There is No Emotion

So...how many of you just** hate **Qui-Gon now? 'Fess up!

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**Chapter 46. There is no Emotion**

Mace Windu wasn't worried. A Jedi such as he didn't worry. But Obi-Wan was usually so prompt. He glanced at the cooling meal on the table once more.

No, this was not like Obi-Wan at all. When they'd discovered over breakfast that they both shared the same love of Alderaanian roast barak with escalloped tubers, topped with a delicate crust of nut-flavored spices, Mace determined to make the meal that very evening. Obi-Wan's face had lit up – he had looked forward to it as much as Mace had looked forward to sharing it.

It had been so good to see that open, warm smile once more. He hadn't seen it in far too long.

He had almost – even – chuckled. But Mace Windu did not chuckle. Not before masters and not before knights, let alone padawans - especially padawans who really should be knights, but were utterly too stubborn to agree. Because the corners of his mouth were intent on betraying him, trying to twitch just the merest bit upwards while he tried steadfastly to press them into a straight line, he had let his lips form words instead: he cleared his throat and gruffly barked something about being on time. For once.

As if Obi-Wan was habitually late…which both knew was not true.

And sure enough, Kenobi - why, the boy merely ducked his head to hide a grin, luckily missing the totally helpless and uncontrollable corresponding tug at the corner of Mace's mouth.

Yet here it was, and here Obi-Wan was not.

Late – and not just "running a few minutes late" late.

After awhile he had to admit he was getting – concerned. Worried, no, just – concerned. With a slight frown, Mace put the dishes into the cooler and headed off in search of the errant young man when there was no reply to his comm call.

He often visited the crèche after the initiate classes, but the crèche masters had not seen Obi-Wan. Not today.

Had he perhaps stayed in the training room, assisting a young initiate with a troublesome move? Surely that must be what had delayed him.

Ah, there he was, indeed, but - Mace's eyes widened. Something was clearly wrong. He was huddled in a corner of the classroom, face buried in his arms as inarticulate gasps shuddered through his body.

"Obi-Wan?" He pressed a hand against the young man's shoulder. There was no response.

Had he had another micro-seizure? Somewhat guiltily, Mace remembered that just because he personally had been unaware whether or not they still afflicted Obi-Wan, that didn't mean they did not.

"Look at me, Obi-Wan." When there was no reply, Mace stuck a finger under the young man's chin and forced his face upright, only to stare appalled. "What happened to you?"

He would never find out, not for sure. Obi-Wan was simply incapable of answering, his eyes blank as if he had disconnected from the world.

Psychic shock aligned with physical injury as on Naboo – or something more nefarious?

Mace dampened a cloth and carefully cleaned Obi-Wan's face and hands, the latter unmarked except by trails of red from palms that had cradled his face and a few scrapes across his knuckles. After a moment's reflection – wasn't there too much blood on his tunic to have just dripped from his bruised and cut cheek - he supported the young man's shoulders with one hand and gently lifted his tunic with the other.

"Dear Force." Mace's face tightened, for Obi-Wan's chest and abdomen looked as if they had been pummeled more than once, perhaps accounting for the harsh breathing which he had mistaken for sobs. Though known to favor all things purple, Mace most definitely did not like the look of the darkening bruises all over his torso.

With a muffled curse, the Jedi master carefully lifted the young man into his arms and hurried him to the Healers Ward, at the entrance passing Qui-Gon on his way out, his hand splinted and bandaged.

"Get a healer stat!' Mace barked at the reception desk as he swept by and deposited the limp young Jedi on the first vacant exam table he spied. An errant arm slipped over the edge and dangled in mid air. Mace tucked it against Obi-Wan's side as a healer arrived and unceremoniously barked at him to make himself useful somewhere else.

Scowling, Mace retreated to the waiting room and comm'd Yoda.

* * *

"Our young one?"

The inquiry preceded the ancient master's arrival into the somber-spirited waiting room where Mace Windu stood, grim-faced and tight-lipped even in profile. Taut with restrained tension, the Jedi barely acknowledged the diminutive master's presence as if to do so would interfere with the slow siphoning of an inexplicable fury and helpless concern into the Force.

Yoda's ears flattened against his head and a clawed hand perceptibly tightened on his gimer stick.

Related this call to the Healers had to be to the recent turbulence that had whipped through the usually placid currents of the Force.

Not long before, Yoda had felt an explosion of – for lack of a better term – emptiness in the Force, a void akin to a black hole that sucked in all matter and yet left little trace of itself, something cleverly hidden as _nothingness_. Yet the Force had wept of misuse and abuse.

Of darkness.

He had wondered: Was this what Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had encountered on Naboo? Sith?

So he had been delving deep into the Force, trying to find a trace of _what_, of _who_, of _where_, when Mace's terse message came. "Obi-Wan. Healers. Come." There had been an edge in Mace's voice that had cut his meditations short.

And now, the edge was honed to an impossible sharpness by the whetstone of the Force, here where Mace scowled at phantoms and the Force swirled in agitation.

"Master Windu?" Yoda prodded. "What has befallen young Obi-Wan?"

"Befallen; oh that's one word for it," the younger Jedi snorted. His expression gave nothing away, leaving Yoda to wonder if Obi-Wan had suffered a relapse, an illness or an injury.

"Another have you?" Yoda tilted his head quizzically.

"Hurt. Bruised. A mess." He shrugged. "Take your pick."

Not illness, then. An injury – related how to the storm in the Force? Curiosity momentarily overwhelmed his concern. "And what do the healers say?"

"He'll survive," he said bitterly.

_Survive_ – an odd choice of words. Were they the healers, or Mace's own? Yoda pursed his lips together, waiting for hopefully more enlightening words to come.

"How could something like this happen here, practically under our noses?"

"An assault, you believe?" Yoda's ears perked up.

Mace finally looked at him and nodded. "Not self-inflicted, in my estimation. I know – it's possible, theoretically – that Obi-Wan's seeming near-normalcy lately only masks a deep depression. We've both been watching for just that at the healers' behest. His continuing nightmares show deep down he's still troubled, his occasional struggle with either over exuberance or insecurity are a sign his healing is yet incomplete, but – Yoda, I don't think he ran into the wrong end of his own fist. It's possible that he might have sustained a bruise or two, a bloody nose, a cut lip in a class mishap– but _all_ that and more…you didn't _see_ him, Yoda."

But Mace all too clearly had. A stain of red still traced the cuticles of his fingers; a smear on his tunic was equally mute evidence.

Yoda grunted and rested on his gimer stick as he again dipped into the Force, this time searching for one particular Jedi's Force presence and any clues it might hold. Each and every Jedi was more than just a colleague to him; each was family, linked not by blood but by dedication to a common cause, linked by the Force. A few were a bit more close to his heart, though it was something he didn't quite admit to himself. A Jedi's heart was big enough for all – and not supposed to be partial to any.

But some – the "mmms" of disapproval they earned were just a bit muted, the "mmms" of approval just a tad bit more enthusiastic.

It was the will of the Force, or the nature of a sentient, beating heart. Yoda did his best to ignore it or minimize it. To be impartial; to favor none.

But the Force, or the heart, would not be deterred by mere mental discipline. It knew who stood closer to its center, and Obi-Wan was one who had and would always. There was no _why_ in it, it merely _was_: a strong bond of affection shared by both Jedi, one not nurtured by either, but there and unspoken.

Persuaded and comforted that he would do this for any Jedi here present and equally sure it would essentially be a fruitless endeavor since much of the Healers Ward was Force-dampened for the protection of other patients which would make it difficult to traverse the strands of the Force, the Jedi sought whatever information the Force might now choose to share.

What little he sensed chilled Yoda's blood.

Like a chill mist, envy, hate, and rage swirled around one man, one Jedi in the eye of a coming storm. It was much like the slow drip of water seeking and exploiting a hidden weakness in the strongest edifice of stone, eroding the seemingly invincible one grain at a time until the chaotic crash of collapse.

It was Darkness.

And it was around Obi-Wan. Clinging to him; surrounding him. Emanating from him, his former master had argued, there in Council. On only one thing could Yoda agree with Qui-Gon Jinn: there at the heart of darkness stood one Obi-Wan Kenobi.

But was the vulnerable Jedi a beacon to light the dark – or the wind to snuff the flame; was he predator or prey?

* * *

The healers kept Obi-Wan several days before releasing him to Mace's custody: several days of simmering worry and several days of surreptitious yet ultimately inconclusive investigations.

Mercifully, Obi-Wan had suffered no organ damage, though several ribs were cracked. It was a miracle, they said, a kidney hadn't been lacerated or the spleen ruptured. The healers could all but guarantee his injuries could not have been incurred by accident – and had taken place when he was unable to defend himself for his arms showed no sign of trying to fend off his attacker, no sign of trying to protect his torso.

It wouldn't be until much later – far too late – when it would be found that a padded stick had been exchanged with one from another room, one that showed deep indents in its padding and blotches of red. Wielded with malicious intent, such was capable of inflicting deep bruises and if aimed just right – at kidneys or liver – inflicting severe internal wounds.

Capable of stealing life.

Had that been the intent, and the assailant scared off? Such seemed likely; there had been more than one blow inflicted on the hapless Jedi which clearly indicated that his injuries were not the result of a mere mishap. A quiet investigation revealed that there had been Jedi who had passed by shortly after the class had ended and then there had been the beeping of Obi-Wan's communicator when Mace had tried to reach him. Fearing detection…had the assailant fled?

And if so, would he return?

And how did one roam without notice in the Temple?

Mace shook his head, upset and worried at the implications. Was it mere coincidence that Obi-Wan had briefly looked quite ill at the beginning of class, only to quickly recover according to Master Danner?

There were too many coincidences for his taste.

Mace rubbed his eyes and returned his attention to the healer.

"He needs care, the kind best provided by others," the healer continued, all four eyes resting on the caretaker firmly. Mace could not agree more; once more the young man lay unnaturally still before him, lost and forlorn. It had been hard enough to see the first time; this second time was nearly heartbreaking.

What was the Force thinking, not shrilling a warning? How much could one broken yet again take before the damage became irreparable?

And dwelling on such thoughts would not heal Kenobi – never could, yet Mace still could not help but think how once more it was getting difficult to remember the sparkling-eyed and lithe padawan who had been the most promising of his age group.

"Right now he doesn't need healing; his body has been tended to but his mind has retreated to a place of no stress, no demands. Of safety. He needs a reason to shed the shelter of oblivion." The healer unconsciously smoothed Obi-Wan's hair back from his brow in as tender a gesture as Mace had ever seen from this healer. Cladorians were talented healers, known for their lack of bedside manners, brusque and utterly reassuring at the same time. Compassion only oozed in their Force presences, not from their physical presences.

Of course, Obi-Wan couldn't feel that gentle reassurance. He tensed and twisted his head away, frowning, until reassured that this touch held no pain. Mace had seen similar reactions before, but rarely from Jedi.

"Once more harsh treatment has caused Kenobi to retreat to the one place no one can reach – the _only_ place his still damaged mind feels is safe. It's an unconscious withdrawal from pain, a very human instinct to hide. He's not thinking like a Jedi, let alone a man; he's thinking like a hurt animal – that is to say, not at all. He's aware on some level of what goes on around him – enough to cringe at any sudden movements as you saw. He needs not healers' care, but the attentions of those who care about him and can persuade him he's safe, who have a chance to reach him and help him find his way back because this time – this time we're not sure he can come back on his own. He needs more than what we healers can offer."

Mace sighed. This was even worse than before. Then, at least, they all had thought Obi-Wan was merely confused in his pain; unwilling to trust his memory, unwilling to betray that confusion but at least cognizant of his surroundings. Now, even that was in doubt.

"So you're saying he's almost totally unresponsive – does that mean he won't respond or that he's unable to respond?"

In response, the healer called softly, "Obi-Wan?" There was not even a flicker of interest or a blink of the eyes. The healer reached out; Obi-Wan's arm tensed then relaxed.

"You must be thirsty, Padawan, please drink a little bit of water."

When a cup was offered Obi-Wan blinked but did not make eye contact with either Jedi, merely accepting the cup when it was put into his hand and drinking his fill, only to hold the cup when done.

The healer smiled a bit sadly and glanced at Mace.

"On some level he hears us, but on a very superficial level; he doesn't let the words penetrate too deep and hence he does not respond except to a direct request. He doesn't – communicate - except on a very basic level. As you've observed, he is more than capable of carrying out most normal physical routines such as eating and sleeping."

Ah, Mace began to understand why Obi-Wan was being released; he was capable of such necessities as using the fresher when his body made its needs known. Obviously, shaving was not a necessity; soft stubble lined the young man's jaw.

Still, wouldn't he be better off in the tender hands of the healers?

As if reading his mind, the Master Healer shook his head. "We caretake the body best and we have done what we can for him. His mind, not his body, needs tending now and he needs to be somewhere in which he feels safe. Here is not such a place."

The two Jedi exchanged gazes; the implication was clear, the obvious unspoken. Since when was the healers ward not considered a 'safe environment'?

Mace nearly snorted as the thought crossed his mind. Few Jedi were comfortable there.

Jedi faced nearly anything with equanimity, no matter how horrific – except healers. Even the most fearless had been known to quail and attempt to evade their precinct under the feeblest of pretenses. Qui-Gon Jinn, and later his padawan, had become legendary amongst the healers for both their aversion to the ward and their fierce devotion to the other when one was laid up.

Even Mace had had to yield control and suppress brutal anxiety the few times he'd been a patient. No, not withstanding injuries and illness, not to mention the usual rounds of inoculations

and such things all Jedi underwent periodically, the healers ward was hardly a haven of peace and security for a Jedi.

Obi-Wan would be more comfortable elsewhere. Any Jedi would.

He nodded in agreement and turned to the young man.

He remembered the last exchange with the healers before entering Obi-Wan's room. It had not improved his state of mind; that he could guarantee.

"_How long do you think he'll be like this?"_

"_Until he feels safe enough to face what happened, rather than flee the memory."_

"_You're certain?"_

Silence betrayed them. Of only one thing were they certain: Obi-Wan had slipped back into his inner world – one without pain.

Mace's worst fears had been realized.

Once more, Mace woke each night to a sense of distress crying through the Force and calmed the young man's nightmares. He wrapped more blankets around a chilled body and pressed more cups of hot liquid into quiet hands.

He ate, he blinked, he slept. He stared out the window, but not into another's eyes.

Obi-Wan - could only cry.

No official explanation was ever found to explain his injuries. Obi-Wan had lingered behind after the class left. He had looked a bit unwell at the beginning of the class but had recovered and participated as usual.

No, nothing unusual had happened.

Oh, Obi-Wan had given a well-received demonstration of defensive skills. With Padawan Skywalker.

Oh, yes, he had transferred into the class. The transfer had not been okayed by Master Jinn but that was because Padawan Skywalker had confused the class schedule and showed up at the wrong class.

Unofficially, the Council knew exactly what had happened, but accusations without proof would never be voiced. Qui-Gon Jinn's bandaged hand was insufficient by itself, for Qui-Gon refused to speak of how he had broken it or where.

In the end, Padawan Skywalker's schedule was straightened out, his master's hand healed, and Obi-Wan was silenced.

As Yoda put it to Mace one day: the Force again wept.


	47. The Force Again Weeps

**Do not be afraid to let go of all that you know - or think you know! The truth is far more complicated than it seems and it starts - here.**

* * *

**Chapter 47**. **The Force Again Weeps **

Malicious glee and soul deep horror were lost amongst the varied emotions of the Jedi currently in residence at the Temple. The fact that it was an assault upon the young Jedi was held quiet, for while evil was on the prowl amongst the Order, its prey was clearly one, just one.

On that, Yoda was certain – but on little else. Mace's suspicions clearly fell in another direction.

With no proof and little clues, theories ran rampant as to why the padawan had again disappeared into the depths of the Healer's Ward, carried there by none other than the redoubtable Mace Windu.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had suffered a relapse, another seizure that would keep him from circulation for a while; such was the most common story making the rounds.

Few were privy to the truth. Not even the full Council knew, for wise decision or foolish, Yoda – with Mace's reluctant agreement – had chosen to keep silent.

One who knew was Anakin Skywalker. The Chosen One.

How could he not?

Had not his master been filled with righteous anger on his behalf once a small, battered and bruised body had been presented for consolation? Had not that same master rushed to confront the man who would dare inflict such injury on an untrained boy, a boy much smaller in size than the grown man? Had not that same master refused to speak of how he had injured, if not broken, his hand?

_Strength shall have dominion over the weak._ Oh, how the weak had now fallen. Anakin hadn't felt so satisfied, so satiated since his return to the Temple as Qui-Gon's padawan.

_Power._

And he would do anything for power, for life had taught him that only power mattered: only power assured freedom, that elusive state he so desired more than anything – freedom for himself, and through himself, for those others he wished to save.

However attained. Truth, lies or manipulation, the means did not matter.

Deception ran in equal measure with youthful exuberance within his veins.

He had been merely a spirited and rambunctious boy when safely sheltered in his mother's presence, cushioned from the harsh realities of a slave's life by her gentle and unconditional love.

But when he was supposedly with Watto, he had instead been a slave to more invidious disciplines. _He_ who inspired fear and _he_who inspired dedication was teacher, guide and father – and he had had his own agenda.

His target was Qui-Gon Jinn and through him, the Jedi Order; his tool, the Jedi master's own apprentice. Destruction, from within.

"The apprentice is the weak one," he had been promised. "He shall die when the confrontation comes. The master – he is easily manipulated through the 'Living Force' he puts all his faith in. He is strong, 'little young'," the fingers had gripped his chin painfully hard, the lesson pressed into flesh, "do not underestimate him, but tears and helplessness overrule his better judgment."

_Practice your tears, practice your lip quiver, practice your vulnerability, he had been commanded. Qui-Gon Jinn shall be vulnerable, and thus all the Jedi._

But even he who knew everything, planned for every contingency, had not foreseen that the apprentice would live and the master it would be who would nearly die. Nor had he foreseen Anakin's need for affection or the lengths his need might override his training. The need was all consuming and selfish.  
And Anakin had gained the Jedi master's love, but it had not been assured, not yet: the despised brat apprentice came close to thwarting him, not just once, but more.

He had carved a niche in another's heart that was not easily emptied; forged a bond of affection that was as strong as the Force itself. The padawan had made it possible for the master's heart to expand and accept another.

_That_affection was real, not just manipulation. That affection was genuine – and spread over two, not just one.

That infuriated Anakin.

How dare one who had the open affection Anakin desired almost more than he wanted the glory and the power. In a life sparse of love, save for his mother, a Jedi had appeared, wise, compassionate and gentle, accompanied by an angel.

Within the weaving strands of the Living Force he had found what should have been his father, and found that man still bound to another. He had been taught how to insinuate himself into that place – but the heart that welcomed him refused to give itself to him alone.

Anakin knew the knife that would sever that connection.

Of what other use was power – but to crush what opposed him? Should the stars stand in his way, someday he would rule them; crush them to rubble if he must. So, too, the apprentice.

For the boy who wanted a father's approval and a father's love knew only his father's power and his father's hate. His father's presence in his life was unknown to his mother, as was his father's existence had he believed her. She would not speak of his father; in fact, denied he even had one.

But he knew better.

As dark as Anakin was fair, the blood and the heritage pulsed within them both.

Part of him hated the man that claimed to have fathered him, for his mother had never wanted his father's touch – not then, not ever. He had thrust himself upon her – not in love, but rage, not for love, but for lust. He had taken her womb and sired a son upon the Mother of the Chosen One; taken what he wanted and punished her with love she didn't want.

Hate was what his father wanted to nurture in him.

Compassion and love his mother had nurtured within the child born of an unwanted union.

In the end, hate had bound him to his father. To spare his mother, he had accepted his father's training, and in time, his father as he learned to hate his mother for the choice he was forced into.

Love made his mother weak enough to do anything she was asked to spare her son and hate made his father strong enough to take anything he wanted without regard to others.

In time, Anakin became more his father's son than his mother's except for one tiny, hidden piece deep within his heart that would not be torn from the woman who loved him and raised him. Then Qui-Gon Jinn had touched that same place. The Jedi master's affection could not be denied. But his devotion was divided and hence less than absolute.

So he had created a choice, a test for Qui-Gon – which padawan would he protect? Which padawan would he love?

He had chosen Anakin.

For the Jedi master had just now proven he would do anything for his padawan. Anything. And he had done it all without asking anything in return. Not demanding, not expecting, not asking – only wanting to do it for him.

_"You will find it easy to wiggle your way into his affections."_

Anakin's breath caught as the whisper - that promise - re-surfaced. Was it a lie? An illusion? Had he really chosen Anakin?

No! He shook his head desperately. Qui-Gon's love was not coerced, because if it was, if it was…

In a life now all but devoid of affection he desperately needed to believe. Yet what if Beebe was right: if Qui-Gon turned on one padawan, what's to say he would not turn on another?

_"… shopping for an improved padawan …why, your Master would never do such a thing. He would never discard one padawan for another, especially when he promised to guide that one to knighthood – well, certainly not twice, anyway. He's far too honorable a Jedi to go back on his word, right?" _

What he really hated was that a part of him began to understand just how devastated the one he had replaced must have felt.

* * *

_He was so still….boneless, almost…._

Not for the first time, a part of Qui-Gon wished to go back weeks in time, a time before doubts and a time before disharmony.

_Pale and bloodied…limp within Mace's arms…. _

Qui-Gon reached his quarters and sank into his favorite seat, its well-worn contours a balm to his body in a way his meditations had not been to his spirit, and passed his un-splinted weary, shaking hand over his temple.

_The scowl on Mace's face, the fierce tenderness that should have been – once had been – his own._

Images danced before his eyes…the quick flash of an impudent gaze, the impish grin of satisfaction when a new kata had been mastered, the firm hand that had clasped onto his and refused to let go, thus saving the master from a fatal drop, not so many missions ago…and eyes locked behind closed lids, arms dangling from within the grasp of another.

_What have I done! Dear Force, what I done?_

Even after several hours of meditation in the gardens, something that had never before failed him, he was haunted by the memory of his former padawan in Mace's arm as he had been carried into the Healers Ward. The senior Jedi had been so concerned that he hadn't even registered Qui-Gon's presence.

The usually gentle currents of the Force had raged and thundered as it rarely did. Bruised and bleeding by its perversion into a weapon of unleashed fury, it had only gentled around Mace and his burden – sang and cajoled and coaxed the young man to rejoin the world he had fled, but even the Force no longer had that power.

Obi-Wan was not letting anyone in, even Qui-Gon could sense that. Instead of fighting back, he had withdrawn to a place where there was no pain.

Never had he wanted – retribution. Not ever. Not - this. He stared at his hand and saw instead the injured boy he'd once called padawan. He just wished he had a sob he could swallow, a tear he could not shed.

_Oh, Obi-Wan, what have I done?_

He leaned forward and groaned. He had given up – much – for Anakin. The Force had so commanded him and so he would do it again, had he a second chance. But the price – oh, the price he'd paid.

"Master, what happened to your hand?" Anakin's shrill concern startled him, the sound so unlike Obi-Wan's dulcet tones. Bright blue eyes were affixed on the splint, a glint of moisture turning them into limpid pools as the eyes rose to meet his in deep gratitude.

"Do you – care so much – for me?"

The boy settled in his master's lap, leaning his head against Qui-Gon's shoulder in utter trust and love, only just managing to hide a wince as his bruised shoulder was encircled by Qui-Gon's own arms.  
"Padawan, do you doubt?" _I have given up everything for you – does that not prove how much you mean to me?_

He laid a gentle kiss on the boy's smooth cheek as he held him, basking in his warmth and affection. Never had a Jedi been so truly blessed by the Force as he had been, blessed with this loving and compassionate boy. Not just the savior of the Jedi, of the galaxy, but a gentle, innocent soul as well.

_"M-master, he – he hates me." _

He had been blind to the pain Obi-Wan so casually, so easily inflicted on those who could not fight back.

_"Not my master any longer – you have forfeited that right."_

Obi-Wan had never wounded him until then, not like that. He hadn't known the young man was capable of inflicting such deliberate pain upon one so familiar to him.

_"M-master…he knew he was stronger…he knew just how to hurt me and hide it from the others."_

The heartbreak in Anakin's eyes as he'd raised his tunic with trembling hands. It had been confirmation of just how cruel Obi-Wan could be – a cruelty he had never suspected until one too many "pathetic life forms" – until Anakin – had ripped the illusion of humor from the words to reveal the ugly thoughts lurking beneath.

Anakin wiggled in his lap and gazed at the splintered hand.

After a moment's reflection, Qui-Gon answered the unasked question with the simple, unadorned truth. "I hit something."

Something.

Something within Anakin's eyes flickered. Surprise? Pleasure? Relief?

Some _thing_. He didn't want to admit to his padawan how he had broken it; see his padawan's hero toppled from the pedestal he'd been put on.

"Something," he repeated firmly.

He would never admit to this boy, to Mace or the Council, how for just one minute he had been so tempted – so infuriated - as to lose control – to punch his former padawan senseless for what he'd done, all that emotional damage he'd inflicted on the current padawan.

He'd been incensed when Anakin told him of Obi-Wan's taunts, of his hard strikes against the s

mall, vulnerable body. Anger had bubbled over into inchoate rage when he'd seen the bruises on Anakin's tender skin and heard of his utter humiliation.

And so he'd sought Obi-Wan out.

He'd found him still in the training room, hunched over with his face in his hands. The quick glance up at the last minute – the wide-eyed shock – the stillness in his posture – all that had betrayed him.

All that had confirmed his guilt.

He remembered it still: the silent swallow, the wide-eyed acceptance of his fate. Acceptance: for what he'd done; what he deserved.

Even now the bones in his hand, the memories in his mind, ached with the impact, the pain mirrored in changeable eyes, eyes that had once looked at him with affection and trust. Those eyes had held only forgiveness and sorrow; his hand had held forth as if to bestow forgiveness and to soothe the anguish that tore through Qui-Gon's soul.

"No. Don't!" He'd snapped, backpedaling away before the tear of forgiveness profaned him with its warm splash. Obi-Wan's eyes fell, his expression chastened like a kitling. The tear instead was blinked back, its offer rejected and the tear retracted.

The Force had indeed keened with sorrow and anguish this day, as it had another.

_My child_, he almost heard it crooning. He'd heard the same on Tatooine – mine – the tender way the Force had wrapped itself around one there – the joy and the pride.

It had led the Jedi master to Anakin – and away from Obi-Wan. But the Force had not abandoned Obi-Wan – it had only asked that Qui-Gon did. He was not left to wonder at this revelation long.

A small head nestled against his shoulder and adoring eyes stared at him – into him – connected them. "Live in the moment, Master."

That soft whisper eased the pain within his heart. Yes, live in the here and now. Rejoice in one's blessings, not those long gone.

"My padawan," he whispered, leaning his head against Anakin's as the boy's arms wrapped once more around him. Anakin would take the pain away; he always did.

The other one brought only sorrow.

* * *

His reach had exceeded his grasp.

Again.

He had reached for his future and been denied. When his broken dreams had fled into the Force, the Force had taken pity on him and softened Qui-Gon's heart. He had become a padawan.

He had reached for his destiny and captured instead ignominy. Qui-Gon's heart had asserted itself and demanded its true heart's desire and this time – this time the Force had granted Qui-Gon's dreams.

And taken away his.

He had reached for the healing power of the Force out of love for another and in another's salvation he had nearly found his own destruction.

A gift from his heart: apparently repugnant to one to whom it had been gifted.

Already burning from internal fire, from his presumption in seeking the power no man, no Jedi, should request, Qui-Gon had torn free from their bond and left his mind in tatters.

And the worst cruelty of all had been the utter silence of the Force; its absence screaming its tacit acceptance of the deed.

This time his reach - grasped only emptiness. His reach had exceeded his bounds, his desire granted but with a penalty. His life, one he would have willingly sacrificed to assure Qui-Gon's, had not been deemed worthy of even such a noble end as death by the Force he had called upon. He was cast loose from the Force as he had been cast loose from his master.

Into the void where once the Force held dominion came others: Mace, Yoda, Bant, and Garen. Others, as well. With their help he slowly rebuilt his life one painful step at a time, never quite certain if his steps were on firm mental ground or treacherous.

Now he knew. A Jedi he would not be.

He had not been found unworthy; he had proved himself unworthy. A Jedi's acceptance had eluded him as he allowed jealousy and hurt to fill his being when his master had only allowed the Force's Will to direct his actions – as he had allowed anger and fear to erupt within his soul when he saw that master struck down – as he had rebelled against the Force's Will in a selfish attempt to keep alive that man the Force wished to bring home.

And now - now he had tempted a peaceful man to near violence.

Never had he seen Qui-Gon Jinn lift a hand to anything, to anyone. Such a possibility had been, until now, impossible. Now, the impossible had happened, and even though the blow had not landed, it had taken flight.

What was left of his heart broke under the shame and the sorrow – and the overwhelming guilt and grief.

To a mind already fractured and disoriented, there was only one escape besides eternal slumber. So there he fled, into forgetfulness, away from those who would hurt him – and those who would help him.

The bars of his self-made prison closed him into the dark abyss of sweet oblivion.


	48. The Shape of Things to Come

**I am sorry to confess I haven't read any reviews (I do so on the other site), but I've been informed by a mutual friend the Qui and Ani hate is incandescent, just as it was on the other site this is posted. I honestly never thought to arouse such passion...it's a bit scary.**

**I understand someone was curious how long this is going to be - well, on the other site where I'm ahead, it's Chapter 62 and, yes, nearing the end. However, NOW that I have a good feed-back person, I hope in future to be shorter-winded - she's under orders to keep me grounded in future.**

* * *

**Chapter 49. The Shape of Things to Come**

Your grand padawan, broken once more he is. An assault, it was."

That, as well as the deep worry in Master Yoda's eyes, had Jedi Master Janusz Dooku on the next ship to Coruscant although he had not yet wrapped up his stay on Serrano with a formal renunciation of his inheritance. He had, he admitted, come close to leaving the Order. Disillusioned with political kowtowing and rigid determinism he had come close to forging his own path, urged to do so by the current Chancellor.

He would have left had circumstances been different.

But the Force refused him leave.

_Tend that which is broken, do not abandon it_. Much was broken, far too much, he had wished to retort. Easier to start over, better to start afresh. Sweep out incompetence and inertia, implement strong, decisive leadership. Force things to be done well and done once.

Then the Force showed him, through Yoda's terse words, the consequences of that path, of abandoning the broken and abused. His heart was touched with the knowledge of the folly, the impertinence, the inhumanity of abandoning the weak and the injured to the strong.

His padawan, of whom he was fond, would be dead now were it not for his own padawan who refused the easy way out, who chose not to mourn but to fight.

That self same padawan whom he had recognized long ago as one important to the Force was now the maimed and the weak.

He would not – could not – abandon them for an elusive and transitory absolute. A strong hand could overreach as a weak hand would not reach far enough. All it took for good to triumph was a will and a desire to see it so, not a sweep of the hand to empty the board.

And he had been so close to doing so, blind to other paths, so certain of the answer. So – so arrogant.

Humbled, chastened, no, but Janusz Dooku was less certain now that he had the power to ascertain the path before him, more certain than ever that that path would be revealed to him by the Force.

He had almost strayed. To what end, he could not say.

But Jinn - and Kenobi as well - had done what the Force alone could not; reminded him that he was Jedi. Reminded him that he was to serve, not lead; to heal, not rebuild.

To come home.

* * *

Darth Sidious was in a huff. The Force had all but howled, but it refused to reveal the source of its disturbance. But he could glean enough to make an educated guess.

He would find out. The disenchanted spoke freely, the young as well.

Both could be found where the storm had broken in all its fury. The Jedi Temple. It had not abated, not yet. It raged like a parent deprived of its child, helpless to protect one it loved from one who stalked it.

Yet the one who stalked _was_ the one which was stalked, for that one was the Force. Just as life demanded death for life to exist, the light needed dark and the dark light – one to illuminate and one to shadow.

Two sides of one coin, opposites or so many thought. Two sides in eternal opposition.

The light feared the dark, shrank from it and even tried to deny its existence.

But the dark…the dark abhorred the light. It sought to conquer it, but it did not ignore it. The Sith dared stare its enemy in the face; the Jedi – looked away. Damnable fools, all of them, putting their faith and trust in the Light, a light which had been dimming for years as he diluted it with the dark, like a still pond clouding with the slow trickle of contaminants into its once clear and pure waters.

Clarity into murkiness as was the way of the Sith.

Such passive fools the Jedi, their world bisected into the beloved and the despised – turning only an ear to the Force for its guidance when they should be grasping for all it had to offer, seeking only its guidance when they should be active, demanding of the Force its power, their birthright. The Force was not a god, but a tool, not a living intelligent sentience but a force field there to be manipulated.

Will of the Force, such a foolish concept. The will of one who wielded its power was in truth the Will of the Force.

As such, the Will of the Force was the Wish of the Sith.

A Sith who demanded the Force obey his wishes and would not stand for less. And it succumbed, slowly and inevitably, to _his_ will. And in the end, the Force would be powerless against him, once he weakened those who opposed him and drew their power to his hands alone.

But he had a potential ally within the ranks of his enemies. A useful fool, he, and powerful but not the one he sought. But then a tool did not need to know to what use he might be put. Ignorance and blind ambition were twin paths to destruction.

No, that one was too easy, too needy, too weak. He knew who he wanted, and he wanted Kenobi. Weak he was now, but there was power underneath, if he could harness it. It was blindingly obvious, for to be so nearly destroyed, he had to be a threat. Sidious was determined it would not be to him, but to his enemies – to Kenobi's friends and colleagues.

It would be a heady challenge, considering what he suspected – both easier and far harder. But a challenge that consisted of breaking one clinging to the Light in the midst of doubt was nearly as much fun as tormenting the lesser, their fingers already grasping for themselves. So even if Kenobi was nearly dead, he was alive – and more vulnerable than ever to the onslaught of darkness.

The dark would feast on his wounded spirit and spit its venom into his weakened body.

He would recover, stronger than ever. Strong in the dark side. Strong in his hate. Strong enough to be a worthy Sith.

How now to get his hands on the boy…

* * *

Anakin stood unnoticed, peering through an open doorway in the Healers Ward, his eyes wide and his teeth worrying his lips. Dim light spilled over a pale face, highlighting bruised cheekbones. This was the man he so hated. He had crept here to gloat, but the triumph raging in his mind fled at the sight before him. Tatooine, and all its ghosts, clutched him in a deep vise of dread and unbeknownst to him - pity. This was familiar, all too familiar a sight. His heart remembered, if not his mind.

Not their names, though, those who could not fight back, the men, the women, and the children. They had no names, those: they who had disobeyed or displeased their owners, stripped of name and stripped to the waist, stripped of dignity and stripped of hope. The whips rose above them and the whips connected, cleansing them of their crimes and their sins with their blood. The pitiable and the petrified: all cried and they all whimpered, but they never fought back, for fighting only incurred worse punishment. Nor did anyone interfere. They would not dare. The free averted their eyes and hurried past; the cruel, gathered to jeer and joke. None cared, not for these poor souls whose bodies belonged to others.

Rage tingled in Anakin's nerves, shook his small frame. Rage – and it wasn't at the man lying so passively in the bed. He didn't see _Kenobi_ – he didn't see the man he so hated. He saw those nameless few…ribs smashed and bodies bloody.

_A hand upraised – a blow struck. A swing of a foot, the lash of a whip. Strips of flesh hanging like macabre decorations from bare backs, men and women and children, all stripped bare to the waist, tied in place to be disciplined for an incautious word, a raised eye or too slow a response. The imprint of boots or toes or claws against a bruising stomach, the grunts and the groans, the shrieks and the screams. The hoarse chuckles of onlookers, the calculation of odds and the clinking of bets exchanged: how long, how long until unconsciousness, how long until death if the offense was deemed severe enough._

_Snick…a whimpered scream…snick, a drop of blood. Snick…hoarse laughs; snick, a rivulet of red._

_Life draining away, one drip at a time. Drip – drip – drip: puddles of red on the harsh dry sands. _

_Public punishments not often seen, not in the streets of town, but far too often even if only once in a lifetime._

A tear formed in one eye; in that moment Anakin was again a boy who could weep for the pain of others. His mother's son stood in the deep dark of the night, not far from dawn – and the Force heaved a great sigh, for the boy was not lost. Not yet. Hope was not lost. Not yet.

But the battle was not won, not yet, for rage battled tears and the victor was not yet declared.

One tear alone could not quell an inferno, but one tear could become a flood to drown the flames.

One tear was a beginning. One tear – was hope for the future of the Chosen One. One tear washed away hate, but one tear was not enough to undo the past or assure the future.

It was only one tear, only one step on a long journey with an uncertain end.

But it was a step forward to the Light – and away from the Dark. For that, the Force was grateful.

~~a night or so later~

Demons or doubts, Qui-Gon wasn't sure which, had resurfaced to plague him, asleep and occasionally awake. It was fitting, perhaps, that he sat brooding in the dark, trying not to think and trying not to feel – awake and flirting with the demons he could not banish. He could not accept that it was doubts, for to doubt was to doubt the Force.

And Qui-Gon Jinn could never doubt the Force – never second guess nor question why.

But he did not understand…and thereon lay the paradox, of accepting all that had come to pass – and yet not.

He had done nothing wrong, he not just knew but was told – he had followed the Force in all that he had done and in all that he had not – yet the Force did not allow him full peace of mind; it did not allow him to _forget_.

Always he would see his hand raised – in motion – swinging – connecting.

Always he would see the upturned face – the resignation – the acceptance – the bowed head.

Something had stayed his hand that day; seen to it that he broke his hand on a wall not upon another. He did not regret that, no matter the provocation, for it had never been his way to strike another. Justice was best served by the Force, best served by the conscience of the guilty.

Justice had seen to it that Obi-Wan Kenobi was punished and mercy had seen to it that he was forgiven. Neither was Qui-Gon Jinn's to dispense; it had never been.

Yet a nameless dread dragged at his soul – a sense that the Force did not – could not – have meant for any of – this – to happen; that this was a horror from which he would awaken and be soothed by the gentle hand of one he had wronged, even if only in nightmares.

All would again be right and the paradox resolved in the clarity of wakening.

But then he would awake and find the nightmare to be all too true…and the one once dear to his heart to be the cast-aside and the scorned.

So, restless and weary both, tonight he left the bed that offered no comfort and let his steps lead him here, to the doorway where he now stood - here gazing upon Anakin, and knew again that _this_ was where exactly the Force now wished him to be.

Here, where he was allowed to banish those demons by focusing on the cherubic countenance of his padawan, this last and greatest of three. Here, where on this night as on so many others, he could find his peace of mind and where, as always, the sight of Anakin lying with his head under his pillow, legs akimbo, could bring a fond smile to his face and forgetfulness to his restless spirit. A natural growth spurt, perhaps spurred by plentiful food for probably the first time in his young life, made the boy seem all arms and legs.

The boy had demonstrated a voracious appetite from the very beginning, devouring all that was set before him. It hurt the Jedi to think what all this boy had gone through in his short life – meager rations, unending toil and the psychological stress of never knowing if or when he might be sold – or his mother.

This boy's plight aligned with his potential had called to Qui-Gon in a way few ever had. This boy would redeem the other who had touched him the same way – and betrayed him.

Was it his generous spirit? His smile? The way he glowed in the Force? Did it even matter why?

All he knew was that his heart had been drawn to the boy from the moment he'd laid eyes on him. He never could stand untouched by the needy or the pitiable. _That_ was his gift of the Force. Recognizing this, the Force had given him Anakin in return.

Which was why it sometimes troubled Qui-Gon that the bond with Anakin was not as deep and communicative as it had been with the prior apprentice, for despite that immediate connection, something was – well, deficient, as if something clotted the bond.

Obi-Wan, it _had_ to be remnants of Obi-Wan sullying what should have been a bright and vibrant bond.

Wasn't it?

The only other possibility was that the dark blotches were remnants of the damage incurred by the severance of the prior bond with he-whom-had-come-before.

He had certainly tried to rid himself of the last vestige of the tie to his former padawan, to start afresh, but it seemed a part of him would remain forever tied to him, just as to the one prior. There was much to blame Obi-Wan for, but he had had to admit – finally – that he had to take responsibility for some part of it. He had reacted, not acted, there on the cold floor in Theed and taken steps to sever his connection with his then-current padawan without sufficient regard for the consequences.

To either of them.

Or to Anakin, the gifted child the Force had given into his care; the one so brutally mistreated by one he had once called "beloved padawan."

But no more. Never again. Some things – he stepped forward and brushed the child's soft cheek with a tender finger – some things just could never be forgiven.

Anakin's eyes fluttered as a finger brushed his cheek and straightened the covers. He stirred, reaching through foggy awareness. Affection and a fierce protectiveness bathed him. He sighed, and snuggled deeper. _Mom_…he breathed softly.

The finger stilled.

_Come child…wake. Duty calls. You don't want your mother to be lonely, do you?_

A barely discernible mental picture of his mother, wrists trapped in the hands of his father, forced down onto the bed flickered too fast for conscious awareness, quietly wending its way through the sleepy byways.

A shrieked "No!" brought him to panicked uprightness, gasping. A tear slipped down Anakin's cheek as he was gathered into warm arms.

"Bad dream, little one?"

_Your tears or hers…_

The threat was implicit. But the action it spurred was no different, what the voice wanted him to do was what he was already doing from instinct.

Anakin clung to the embrace. "I miss – I miss Mom." And he did. It was the truth, half the truth.

"Oh, child, I know, I know." The arms rocked him as the baritone voice murmured in his ear. "It's in the nighttime silences that our hearts speak to us; it's in the daytime that our hearts are more likely to be silenced by our minds."

_He loves you…but the other one as well. You know what you are to do. Push him away, push him out – and pull your master in._

It should have stirred jealousy and possessiveness, for it was a reminder that Qui-Gon refused to relinquish, deep within his heart of hearts, the predecessor and allow Anakin sole access. But this time the command failed to ignite the tiny spark so carefully nurtured within the boy - never caught nor roared into flame - for Anakin's hate had melted into something akin to, if not yet, pity. Try as he might, the man in the Healers Ward had turned into one of them – the downtrodden and abused.

To what he had himself once been.

And that frightened him, for he needed that hate – otherwise, he was nothing more than a pawn in a game he did not yet truly understand – a game he was already trapped into playing, if he wished to protect his mother.

More than just his carefully coached training created his sobs; his sobs were a byproduct of finding a haven of warmth and security in the big Jedi's arms. And even if affection was shared, halved, and divided, this affection was freely gifted to him, Anakin, the boy who now followed his heart as well as his instructions.

He curled deeper into Qui-Gon's arms, cushioning himself against the cruel world he could not escape. And for a moment, it didn't matter that he had, at least in part, manipulated the Jedi and would again, for the caring was genuine and it was his.

Right now, Qui-Gon was all he had.

* * *

Hidden in the darkness, curled in his self-made prison, he wondered how it went so wrong when it had so nearly gone so right. He wasn't beaten, not yet, but he'd had a narrow escape. He had so nearly quenched the aching need within him. But others had interfered, taken away the peace he had been on the edge of creating for himself.

They would come after him now, but – they had to find him first.

Too bad they had no idea where to look. He was safe here in the dark, all alone, where no one would think to look for him. Safe, until it was time to come out.

"_Hiding in the dark does not hide one from one who can see in the dark even better than in the light."_

Someone had intruded without his knowledge! He would not acknowledge the soft whisper, even as he tensed.

"_Open your mind to me, my would-be apprentice. I mean you no harm; none at all." _

Somehow this didn't strike him as a good idea. A low chuckle resounded in his head.

"_You have called to me, my young one, and I am calling back. I can grant you all that you wish. You have been deceived and betrayed; you have been hurt. I can feel your pain – and I can take it away."_

Oh, the deceit and betrayal was all too true. He deserved better than to be cast aside, useful for a time and then discarded for something better.

"_Yes, my young Jedi friend, you have been mistreated and abused while those who mistreat and abuse you walk with head high and dignity intact. Learn from me…learn with me. Do not be trod on any longer."_

Was this not what he wanted? They would regret what they had done to him. The bitterness in his soul shivered through him.

"_Name your price and I shall grant it."_

Visions assaulted him then, all that he wanted and more. All it would take was his acceptance.

He succumbed, unable to resist the lure, his defenses less than adequate.

But a part of him understood: he had just made a deal with the devil.


	49. Never Underestimate the Power of Love

**Chapter 49. Never Underestimate the Power of Love**

It took nearly a week of patient nursing to ease Obi-Wan back from the depths of his mind, nearly a week for the bruises to fade and the cut to heal, nearly a week before Obi-Wan again spoke or gazed with eyes that again saw.

Not just Mace, but Yoda and Bant spent long hours by the young man's side, talking to him, unclenching his fisted hands so that they could hold a chilled hand within theirs. Touch, the healers advised, touch was the best way to reach him.

Touch they all did, all in their own way.

Mace wrapped him in blankets and patted his knee every so often.

Yoda ran clawed fingers through sweat-dampened hair and wiped tears from his cheeks.

Bant held his hand, stroking it gently, or pressed her forehead to his while Garen, newly returned from a mission, squeezed his friend's arm.

Garen asked for and was granted an indefinite leave from missions to join the circle of friends trying to ground Obi-Wan in the real world. Another childhood friend, Reeft, would be granted the same once he and his master returned.

"What can reach you, Obi – words? Touches? A memory?" Garen whispered each day he came. "I'm trying, so desperately trying – do you hear me? I'm not giving up, none of us are. The healers said you'd show us the way when you are ready."

"_Obi-Wan's numb to the outside world because of the pain he associates with it. He will want to stop hiding when the shock wears off – but he might then find himself trapped within a mind unfamiliar to him in some respects and need help to come back. One day he will reach to you as you reach to him and that day is the day we can bring him back."_

Garen held onto that as a mantra. Obi-Wan would reach back. One day. Someday. Any day now. Perhaps – perhaps today.

So each "today" he'd squat before his friend and search his vacant eyes for a spark, a blink of recognition. Each day was filled with hope; each night was empty with despair.

"Hey, Obi, remember when we discovered girls weren't icky?" Garen offered his friend a cup of warm coca, something he had been doing for several days. It seemed to ease Obi-Wan's trembling; it eased fingers tightly clutched to the edges of the blanket he huddled within – a refuge, a shield against the world.

Garen always had to place the mug in Obi-Wan's hand, wrap the fingers around it and urge him to drink. Once the aroma hit his nose, Obi-Wan would drink, hands loosely cradling the warm mug.

As he always did, Garen held out the mug, holding his breath and nearly dancing with joy when this time fingers crept from with within the blanket engulfing his friend to wrap around it without urging. Once assured Obi-Wan was not about to drop or tip the cup of hot liquid, he sat beside the hunched form and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

It was so strange to be the one comforting Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was always the one comforting his friends – he was never weak, never in need. Now the galaxy had shifted.

Garen started murmuring random thoughts of their childhood, of less troubled times.

"Remember when you tried to kiss Siri and got a fist in your nose for your trouble? For a five-year-old girl, she packed quite a punch, if I remember. Now me, I kissed Gailynn and she kicked me – right where it hurts. _You_ thought it was funny, so Gailynn decided to kick you as well for laughing at me? Remember that's when we both swore off girls?"

Obi-Wan's head dipped slightly – had the words triggered something? Garen brightened. Was Obi-Wan listening – remembering - responding?

"Now me, I swore off my 'swore off girls' when I got older. You never did, did you – though I might be wrong. I thought I saw Siri kissing you once and you kissing her back. Did I imagine that?"

Obi-Wan's fingers tightened around Garen's. A tendril of excitement grew within Garen: hope mingled with fear that perhaps he was only imagining that his friend was slowly responding. If he was, was it to the humor, or mention of Siri, or just the persistence of his friends – was he lost inside struggling to reach those who struggled to reach him?

Qui-Gon could have reached him – once. Probably still could, knowing Obi-Wan, probably could if he could be persuaded to care enough to try, despite everything.

Resentment and anger welled up and were just as quickly breathed out into the Force. Resentment and anger had no place here, only love and concern, only Obi-Wan's well-being. Qui-Gon _wasn't_ here, and Qui-Gon clearly _didn't_ care.

Could bonds of friendship, nurtured from childhood, succeed where other attempts had failed, or was this fight Obi-Wan's alone?

Garen fed his hopes with affection, words as warm as the coca Obi-Wan held so gently.

"So, Siri can reach you, huh? I wish she were here, Obi – maybe she could find you wherever you're hiding. She was always the thorn in your side you couldn't ignore. Things got a little tense between you after that one mission – like a lovers' quarrel broke you up – or your masters. You both were rather prickly after that and didn't speak to each for a year or so."

Tears were again running down Obi-Wan's cheeks, only Garen thought these tears were different. They weren't just tears, but tears triggered by a memory, by a conscious awareness of grief. He gently wiped them away.

"She still cares for you, you know and if she were here, she'd be begging you to come back to us."

He wrapped his arms around his friend's stiff body and held his breath. Slowly, ever so slowly, Obi-Wan turned into the hug, clutching the mug with one hand as the other clutched at Garen. A tear ran down Garen's face at the contact. It was a step forward. Obi-Wan was responding, albeit silently.

He gently took the mug and set it down, pressing a gentle kiss against the top of Obi-Wan's head.

Across the room the door opened and Yoda stepped in. He sensed hopeful anticipation building within Garen, so he merely waited, listening and watching, ears curled forward.

"She's not the only one who cares. There's so many of us who care for you – come on, Obi, we need to hear your laugh and see your smile. We need you."

"Reaching him, are you?" Yoda hobbled towards them with a soft smile and settled on the arm of the couch at Obi-Wan's other side. He touched the Jedi's face with a gentle claw. "Want you back we do, young one. Missed you are."

A flicker of cognizance, matched by a flicker of hope within the two Jedi, wafted through the heretofore-empty eyes.

"Come on, Obi, we love you and miss you," Garen whispered. He took a deep breath, sensing Yoda's approval, for Obi-Wan was always quick to respond to the perceived needs of others. It wasn't fair, using that as bait to draw Obi-Wan back, but Garen was willing to try anything to reach his friend. "We _need_ you."

"Yes, youngling, to Garen you listen. Come back to us. Safe you are. Safe to come out it is. Here to help we are, for pain shared is pain lessened."

Yoda beamed, clearly sensing something Garen could not as yet – they were reaching Obi-Wan. Garen closed his eyes in silent relief and gratitude, tears welling from underneath the lids.

"Don't make us wait – I haven't learned patience yet," he coaxed hoarsely. "Besides, Master Yoda is right here with his gimer stick. You need to save my ankle."

"Whack your ankle or even mine I would if it would help Obi-Wan," Yoda grumbled softly, his eyes creasing in a show of amusement.

Eyes blinked, but the gaze was unfocused, still. Lips parted, and though no words were spoken, Obi-Wan might have been shouting from the top of the topmost Temple spire as far as Garen was concerned. Exultation rang through the Force.

"Master Yoda – he's trying to reach back."

"Young one, help do you need to come back?" The old Jedi leaned forward and gently turned the young man's head to face him, cupping his cheek and trying to capture his eyes. "Coming we are to help you home."

Yoda reached out and linked Force energies with the knight, power and affection and hope combined into a massive wave that sought the merest cracks in the wall that separated Obi-Wan from external reality. Each brick was built of "failure," of "disgrace," and "guilt" but the mortar that held them in place was crumbling from the assault within of gratitude and joy and from without of determination and affection.

Once collapsed to dust, the walls revealed Obi-Wan still trapped within bars. Garen saw him as he had been, a boy not yet thirteen; a boy still fighting to hold onto hope even as his future was collapsing around him.

"_I'm imprisoned within for the door will not open."_ The huddled figure got to its feet. _"Have you come to get me out?"_

"_Here I am – we are – to get you. Come, young one." _

"_I can't open it."_ Obi-Wan mimed trying to push the door open.

"_When a door will not open, sometimes a window will work. Tried to escape you have, by pushing your way out. Escape you shall by opening the door and letting the outside come in."_

The boy cocked his head. Hesitantly, a hand reached forward and wrapped around a bar, joined by Yoda's and Garen. The door swung inward, creaking and groaning in time to Yoda's soft chuckle.

"_Trying so hard to escape, young one, but the wrong direction you took._ _Trying you have been to push your way out when the way out is in."_

"_Oh."_ The boy hung his head, chastened and shrank back from the open doorway. _"I did it all wrong, again." _

"_Forgiven you are. Take our hands, come with us. Come, come. Friends await you."_

A great warmth spread through the three Jedi. It was the Force's love and compassion, channeled through Yoda. Garen had never felt so soothed, so comforted, so alive. He couldn't tell if Obi-Wan could feel it, not as he could, but something had touched him, that much was clear for Obi-Wan was shifting within Garen's embrace, his grip almost painful as it tightened on the Jedi's tunic.

Light danced and rippled across the waves of the Force.

Hope that had withered was again blooming, visible as a tentative smile on the boy's face.

"_No more pain, young one. No more, if I have anything to say about it."_

_The boy drew a breath and a young man blew it out._

"_Thank you." The whisper was full of trust, hope and gratitude – and overwhelming relief. "I don't – I don't really like – to be alone."_

"_Then come back to us, young one. Many care for you, worried, many are. Let not your light be extinguished by the bright sun of another."_

Within the Force, Yoda extended his hand and within the Force, Obi-Wan reached back. Joined by Garen's, the three hands linked – one clasp within the Force's own hand.

Garen stifled a cry of surprise at the resulting shower of brilliant light; what should have been painfully blinding only caused a blink of his eye; the incandescent flare had been only a warmth that barely tingled against his palm when it should have burned deep. A deep sigh escaped at least one of them. Garen was pretty sure it wasn't him; he thought he was incapable of sound.

"Safe now it is to peek," the cheerful voice of Yoda informed Garen. He slowly unscrewed his eyes and saw Yoda sitting with one clawed hand against Obi-Wan's temple. He was back in his mind, alone. The three Jedi were no longer linked.

Never had he experienced anything like that. Amazing.

Garen tried not to focus on the immense power and deep compassion he had touched. Instead, he focused on Obi-Wan, who was blinking furiously and wetting his lips as if still dazed and confused.

"Hey, are you back?"

Obi-Wan nodded wearily and squeezed one of Garen's hands, then closed his eyes in deep exhaustion. The young knight held him another moment, then gently laid his friend back on the couch.

"Pleased Mace Windu will be," Yoda said softly, stroking the young man's forehead.

"He is going to be all right, isn't he?" Garen still couldn't quite believe it. "Master Yoda – thank you for bringing Obi back."

"Brought him back we did not. Joined with him we did to help him bring himself back. Would have found the way himself had he the Force with him and if undamaged his mind was." He looked at Garen and his eyes suddenly twinkled with amusement. "Just showed him how to open the door, I did."

* * *

Mace Windu _had_ been pleased.

Walking into his quarters to find Yoda and Garen sitting in amicable conversation while Obi-Wan lay sprawled in easy and utterly relaxed slumber on the couch, Mace had sensed an easy contentment within the two that told him much.

"He's back, Master Windu."

A blind man would have been dazzled by the huge grin on Garen's face. Not Mace Windu.

"I see that, Garen." He nodded to the young knight, squeezing his shoulder in passing and squatted by the couch, studying the young man before him. "Welcome back, Obi-Wan," he murmured, straightening the braid upon his chest before loosely draping the blanket over him.

"What!" he snapped upon standing, finding Yoda's amused eyes on him. Garen was staring as if he could not quite believe his eyes. "For Force's sake, Knight Muln, put your eyes back in your head. I'm not the ogre you apparently believe I am. You might as well find that out now, since you're not a padawan any longer."

"Yessir, not an ogre, sir," Garen agreed hastily.

"Don't tell Padawan Eerin."

"My lips are sealed, sir, but," he pointed to his friend, "I think Obi-Wan already knows; that you are – I mean aren't, uh…." he stumbled over his words.

"Don't dig it any deeper, Muln."

After a moment's startled silence, the knight finally caught on and grinned weakly.

"I do have a sense of humor, Garen." Mace shook his head as Yoda softly chortled. "It's about time you found that out as well. As to young Kenobi…."

Yoda and Mace exchanged glances and Yoda nodded. Mace dropped into a seat and steepled his fingers, looking just as he did in Council - stern and formal.

"Obi-Wan has earned his knighthood, even if he has declined to accept it as yet. Under the circumstances," he glanced at the sleeping Jedi, "we have been keeping it quiet and we would appreciate your honoring our silence until things are more - settled."

Unspoken was whether or not Obi-Wan could resume the only life he knew.

As with all things unknown, Jedi didn't dwell on _what-ifs_. That they left to the Force.

"Declined?" Garen sighed. "Let me guess – Master Jinn has made him feel unworthy and undeserving. Obi always took everything his master said as pure truth. With all due respect, Master Yoda, he usually agreed with the Council but he would keep his mouth shut against his better judgment rather than go against his master. I mean, he'd speak up in private, but when Qui-Gon said enough, Obi shut up."

Yoda nodded. "An obedient padawan he was, loyal and hardworking."

"And what did it get him? Masters – please, what happened? I know I don't have a right to know, but how can I help him through this?"

"The truth is why we don't know _why_ what happened did," Mace finally said. "We know enough – but not everything. That the Force has yet to reveal. Garen, I suggest you do your best to forget this conversation for now. Just be there for Obi-Wan. He needs his friends, not their questions."

Garen knew a dismissal when he heard one. He stood and looked at his sleeping friend. "I'll be there for him, Master Windu, and Bant, too. We'd do anything for Obi."

"I know you would. Yoda and I as well. Oh, and thank you." Mace walked Garen to the door. As soon as the door shut, he turned to Yoda. "I hope you shielded that power – it felt like a quake in the Force."

"Shielded from those who need not to know it was," was the serene response.

"So does he know?" Mace inclined his head towards the doorway.

"Touched the truth he has, but know what it means, no, he does not," Yoda affirmed. He laid a hand on Obi-Wan's leg. "Not even this one knows."

"Oh." Mace sunk into a chair. "Force help us all when he finds out."

"Fear him I do not. Fear for him, if it gets out – that I fear."


	50. What Hath Time and Enemies Wrought

I've been so busy with this and that, I'm not even sure how long since I've updated...so here's an update. I'm far enough ahead on the other board to advise things will start to move more quickly - once we get to that part.

* * *

**Chapter 50. What Hath Time and Enemies Wrought**

"Fear him I do not. Fear for him if it gets out – that I fear."

While Yoda's words had made some things far more clear, they had also complicated and made far less clear other matters.

_Fear for him if it gets out_…

"Protect him, you said. You mentioned long ago on Naboo I should 'protect' him," Mace finally said. He shook his head. "We both know by his injuries he didn't fall – someone assaulted him. We both know it wasn't an accident, or the person would have spoken up. Why would Qui-Gon…."

"So sure it was him are you?" Yoda's ears curled forward.

"Reasonably sure, but not convinced, not enough to make an accusation. Who else?"

"Irrational in some ways Qui-Gon has become, but hurt another physically he would not. One blow, perhaps, though unlikely. Another it must have been."

Mace blinked, and then shook his head in negation.

"No; no, Yoda. I won't believe we have Jedi in the Temple who would bully a hurt man. Some of the younglings to their age mates, sure, that can and does happen until we find out about it and put a stop to it – but, no." A troubling thought surfaced, niggled into being by his earlier words. He said slowly, feeling his way through the words, "He fell on Naboo. He was weak and dizzy at the time, or so we thought. You mean – you suspect that, too, might not have been an accident, but an assault?"

"Hard it is to say; elusive the answers are. Loves Obi-Wan the Force does but protect him or throw him in the path of evil does it? What lessons are he meant to learn if he survives them?"

Yoda's words hung in the air between them. Taken aback at the implied implication, Mace dazedly shook his head.

"Perhaps - how to survive," Mace finally managed to respond, albeit grimly. "So what do we do now? We can't keep him leashed to us until – if – he is able to protect himself, until he regains the Force – we can't let him be a target, either."

Yoda sighed and scratched an ear. "Worry about the present; the future we shall deal with when it comes."

"Adopting Qui-Gon's philosophy are we now?" Mace sighed. "I suppose you're right. Perhaps the Force will provide an answer if we just let it mull on it for a while and let it get back to us."

A snort greeted that. "Adopting the boy's humor are you?" A long finger pointed at the younger Jedi. "Much alike you are."

"I've been finding that out," Mace agreed. "So if Qui-Gon is not a demented Jedi master running amok in the Temple taking umbrage at any disparaging words spoken of his 'dear Ani' – what in Sith's hells is behind all this?"

"Said it yourself you just did, perhaps." Yoda's eyes held Mace's.

A shiver traveled up Mace's spine. "The Sith."

"Returned they have."

"And Obi-Wan is their target." Mace turned his gaze to the sleeping young man. A man, indeed, yet at the moment looking like a boy more than a trained Jedi, not someone who should have to face a Sith.

_He already has_, he reminded himself. _Defeated him, as well – is that why?_

Surprisingly, Yoda shook his head. "Not directly, I sense. Target by happenstance, but still a target and vulnerable he is. The Force tells me – have faith."

"Faith." Mace leaned back and stared at the little Jedi. His words were rather bitter. "You want to leave Obi-Wan the bulls-eye in some Sith target."

"Umph, so it seems." Yoda's ears folded forward and he traced small circles on the floor with his stick. "Plots within plots I sense; young Kenobi is at the heart. The Force tells me only– watch over him but let events play out. Conceals the presence of the 'Chosen One' he does if we do not interfere overly much. Faith, Master Windu. Faith that the Force will protect its own we must have."

"You'd let him be a decoy?" Mace was nearly speechless. "He's in no shape, no shape Yoda to defend himself."

"Defend himself he will not need to do. The Force will see to it; if he needs to defend himself, he will find a way. Always with him, need forces him to find a way. The Force tells me he will be safe."

"And if you're wrong?"

Yoda sighed and dropped his eyes. "If misheard I have…a Jedi he is – his life pledged to the Force. If it asks for his life…die he will."

Mace growled low in his throat and rubbed a hand over the back of his head. The old Jedi was right, of course, yet sometimes the realities and sacrifices of a Jedi's life just up and smacked one in the face when one wasn't quite prepared. This was one of those times.

Was this boy to be one of those sacrifices?

"Yes; yes we have pledged our lives to the Force, have we not? Yet here we speak not of our lives, but another's."

The old Jedi was unmoved. "In pledging our lives we have also pledged our deaths, for one cannot exist without the other. Death is only the ending of this life, not life in the Force."

Rigid and unyielding as the words sounded, they were spoken with a rare gentleness, an understanding that truly embodied the Jedi ideal of _acceptance_. Acceptance of what was, and what was to come. Acceptance that even when a Jedi did one's best, sometimes one's best was not enough. _A commitment not made lightly_. Those words resonated as never before, ancient words, impressed on all initiates seeking to become apprentices, on all apprentices at their knighting.

It had never been about walking away, but walking forward. Committing one's heart, mind and soul to the service of the Force, of giving one's very life in full knowledge of what was being offered and what was being accepted.

"He rededicated himself there on Naboo."

"Affirmed the choice he made years ago, his life he gave into the Force's keeping." Sorrowful pride flashed through ancient eyes that had seen much over the centuries. "The Knight's Pledge came not in ceremony, but while dangling in a pit, his choice between Light or Dark, not Life or Death."

"Jedi he chose there to be." Mace did not consciously mimic Yoda's way of speaking. "Life the Force chose to give him in return."

Mace laid a hand against Obi-Wan's cheek; the young man sighed and nestled into it; the older Jedi's eyes softened fractionally. "I really hate this." His tone was laconic and self-deprecating. "I wouldn't have him anywhere else, though. He'll sleep better in bed, I think – that couch is not that comfortable."

He carefully lifted the sleeping young man and carried him to bed, arranging his limbs neatly and tucking him in.

He hesitated on the way out, hand on the switch. For some reason he couldn't trip it, couldn't plunge Obi-Wan into darkness.

_Foolish Jedi master_, he chided himself. And left, the light only dimmed.

Yoda's head lifted at his entrance. "A good friend you have been to our young one. Much affection I sense in you; guard him like a mother kitling you do."

"Affection, ah – well, ah, yes." Mace cleared his throat; carefully avoiding looking at Yoda. It wouldn't do his reputation any good should that mistaken impression get banded around. "I suppose I'm a bit fond of him -" Yoda snorted, "– what!'"

Mace threw up his hands. _Blast it!_ "Fine, I admit it. I had no such intentions, let alone act like a protective father. I thought Qui-Gon had over time allowed his padawan to become as much a son as a student. No good can come of it – how will Obi-Wan learn from his teacher if he doesn't respect him – yet those bonds of affection never interfered with his training – with discipline. Now he's wormed his way into my heart as well."

Yoda chuckled at the other Jedi's discomfiture; both knew he had not sounded so aggrieved in years.

Mace scowled – anyone else would have had the sense to keep their amusement to themselves - then finally grinned and shook a finger at the older Jedi. "You sly old troll – you feel no different and I know you would have done the same for him, Yoda, had you the chance. That young man brings out the best in us. I'm not sure just how – or why."

But both knew: Behind that dry wit, behind that quick mind, lay a compassionate heart.

* * *

A Jedi master sat silently staring at the night sky. The Force seemed to be knocking at his mind, seeking entrance. Rather strange, considering his mind was always receptive to the Force.

Warmth spread through him – and just as quickly disappeared. He wanted it back – whatever it was, something beautiful and something right. Something – now altered.

He shivered suddenly.

"Master?"

"Yes, Obi-Wan," he answered, turning round to see Anakin standing forlornly before him. Confusion melted into gentleness. He opened his arms and Anakin clambered into his lap and wrapped small arms around his middle. He smiled and leaned his chin on the tousled head of hair. "Couldn't sleep, Ani?"

"The Force was babbling."

"Babbling, huh? I thought it shot off a flare a while ago." No, for a brief second, less, he had thought he had touched his former padawan's mind, and in that second had felt – grief – regret - despair. But what need had he of grief, of regret, or of despair?

The past was behind him, gone forever. This was his present. He held the future within his arms. This time, he would not mess it up.

Inside…

… his heart wept a tear.

* * *

Mace Windu had slept uneasy that night. Was it warnings from the Force, or mere worries of a man who knew better?

Unlike him, the young man in his charge had slept in soft slumber as if the prior day's awakening had eased something within him. This, Mace knew, because he had checked, once or twice, the once or twice he'd admit to, restless and unsettled as he had been. Sleep's unease, it seemed, had moved from one man to another.

Would the nightmares have, as well, had Mace slept rather than tossed and turned?

Now here he was again, watching, wondering – worrying the deeper truths behind Yoda's words much as a cananoid worried a bone. So much was now clear, so much was still obscure. Yoda had confided the evening before that even the Force's revelations were, for lack of better words, insufficient and unsatisfactory. Cryptic, he had even grumbled. In another context Mace would have found that admission laughable, considering the old Jedi was one who had long ago mastered the art of cryptic communication.

For one such as he, who preferred the direct and straightforward, it was well nigh intolerable.

Despite his misgivings, Mace was pleased to see Obi-Wan sprawled on his stomach with his face buried into the pillow, a position so unlike the tightly coiled position of the distressed young man that he had grown used to seeing; so pleased, that he all but smiled. It was a good sign, a very good sign, indeed.

Flush with returning health, the boy practically glowed in the - Mace's eyes narrowed. Glowed? In the dark? And then he understood. It was something he had always known – and yet never before noticed: Obi-Wan Kenobi attracted whatever light was near, however meager, to his side –always it skipped, it slipped, or it danced to his side. In some way, some form, somehow, light always sought this Jedi.

As it did now.

Soft illumination had tumbled from the open door to caress the sleeping visage as if to outwardly illuminate the too oft-hidden gentle soul, tucked away beneath the carefully constructed Jedi shell of stoicism and practicality that Obi-Wan too often girded himself within - a Jedi's armor for the soul, meant to shield hearts from harm. Armor too many Jedi encased themselves within, for a heart too buried was a heart too removed from a Jedi's true compassion.

Within Obi-Wan – armor and vulnerability seemed in rough equilibrium.

The Force stirred, and so did a memory.

"_Qui-Gon will need you."_

Battered but not broken, this boy before him – rooted in generosity of spirit – had refused to close his aching heart, but had instead taken his despair and molded it into compassion for another. For Qui-Gon Jinn, the master who had abandoned him and who as a consequence had found himself all but exiled from his colleagues within the Order. Deservedly so and yet, and yet -

"_Qui-Gon will need you."_

And an older and more experienced – more jaded – Jedi master had been humbled, by one yet deemed a Padawan Learner.

"Are you an instrument of the Force, Obi-Wan; one meant to open our eyes to our greatest strength?" Mace whispered, a suddenly troubled look creasing his brow. "If so, it is a harsh lesson for the teacher, for you have suffered much. Yet I sense your trials are not of the Force but of ill-intentioned contrivance, perhaps even Sithly connivance."

It was a small consolation, if one nevertheless: that the Force had wrested something positive out of this entire ordeal. In Obi-Wan it had forged a gem from the crucible of adversity. It had not found it a difficult task, Mace thought, not when one considered whom it worked through.

Obi-Wan's trial of the spirit had been twisted to a means both noble and enlightening and, with Obi-Wan the example, shown that it was better to risk a broken heart than to live with a heart that could not be broken.

It was a revelation unexpected and not a bit disconcerting. It was a revelation exhilarating and terrifying, all at once.

Mace vowed then and there that he would chip and pry any excess layers away, from Obi-Wan or any other Jedi that saw too much or felt too much and sought solace in layer upon layer of detachment and distance. Better to risk a broken heart than to live with a heart that could not be broken.

It _was_ the lesson the Force wished to impart, for warm approval filled his senses.

There were lessons indeed to be learnt, lessons to be heeded. Through Obi-Wan, the Force had already impacted Mace Windu. The stern, grim Master had rediscovered his own capacity for personal warmth in caring for Obi-Wan. Master Softie he would never be and had no wish to be. Perhaps he was – and in fact would choose to remain - less a man than a Jedi, but he would now be a better Jedi for the reminder that underneath still lay the man.

His moment of self revelation was interrupted by a soft whimper.

Obi-Wan had shifted; an arm now lay across his eyes and what could be seen of his face was now scrunched in silent discomfort - or pain. Pain? The young man had seemed so at peace earlier, slumbering in the sheltering comfort of the Force.

What had intruded on that peace? Another nightmare as his mind stirred to wakefulness?

A quick step forward brought Mace forward. "Find peace yet awhile longer," the Jedi master murmured. It was a wish as much as a command. With a soft exhalation of breath, Obi-Wan quieted under the sleep suggestion.

Mace stepped back and crossed his arms, frowning slightly as he leaned against the door jamb. He had hoped that what had transpired earlier had been the beginning of true healing for the young man he had taken under his care. He was no longer sure.

Perhaps it was a sign of the uncertain path that stretched forward, a path that might yet take the young Jedi away from them. He now knew much he had not before, still less than Yoda, and both still less than the Force in which each chose to place their trust.

It was that trust that had kept each from interfering overly much with the complicated issues between master and former padawan, between master and Chosen One. The Force had plans for them all, and no matter how hard to stomach, how difficult to watch, they had not pushed overly hard for answers at the Force's own behest. They were little more than mere spectators in this drama.

As a man he was ashamed. As a Jedi he was content to wait.


	51. By Force and By Folly

I just returned from 12 days in Alaska - go there if you get the chance! Part cruise, part land tour - and don't forget to experience** dog sledding! ** It was** fantastic **(and the small plane flight around Denali** spectacular)!**

* * *

**Chapter 51. By Force and By Folly**

He supposed it didn't matter. Didn't know why, didn't seem to care.

"_Yes, Obi-Wan_." The words, that name, had slipped so easily from the Jedi master's lips. An albatross tied to Anakin's neck, a match to the flame, a hindrance to his place, and Anakin only rubbed his eyes and let an apologetic-eyed Qui-Gon lift him into his lap.

"_Yes, Obi-Wan_."

Anakin wanted to be angry. He deserved to be angry. He had a right to be angry at being called by _his_ name.

"_Obi-Wan_."

But he couldn't, he found.

Something stronger had touched him and, well, sorta, paralyzed that part of him.

Something soothing and comforting had filled him. He didn't have a word for it, only a feeling. It would profane and corrupt that feeling, his anger, if he let it. And Master Qui-Gon's voice had been so soft, so gentle, like he'd felt it, too, deep inside where special things resided.

It had felt like, well – Anakin pondered – like a window had opened and on the other side stood his mom, arms outstretched and a smile on her face. He had felt her, then. It was sunlight and warmth and love. And he couldn't hate – even him – when feeling so loved.

Had Qui-Gon felt loved, too?

Was this something miraculous, an outpouring from the Force to restore harmony or something commonplace, a burp from being fed too much at once? He'd always giggled after burping, while his mother would cover her mouth as she whispered, "Oh, Ani," but her eyes were always mirthful no matter how mournful her words.

He was so tired of hating…so tired of hurting. He wanted what he had been given a glimpse of – moments like this, tucked against a chest and held in comforting arms, while the wind howled and scraped dust-enshrouded claws at closed doors like an ill-tempered Tusken – safe, where nothing bad could intrude, where he felt so - so flooded with love and warmth.

And they'd felt it, too – all of them. Qui-Gon, and Obi-Wan, and – even him, too. Each and every one of them. Because echoes bounced and burped all up and down their connection, that intricate network of hidden ties that bound them together.

It was love and it was hate, love disguised as hate and hate disguised as disgust and just – well, so much of everything.

But then it had all been silenced once more. And he missed it.

He snuggled deeper into the encircling arms, seeking and finding just a fraction of that peace, if just for now. And maybe – just maybe – for yet a longer.

* * *

Darth Sidious practically cackled with delight and anticipation.

He had a new plaything, something to twist into something pathetic. The young man posing as a Jedi – oh, but the Jedi were _blind_ to miss the viper in their midst; one who was as well up to his own nefarious dealings – was cruel and amoral without doubt. But not Sith material. A true Sith commanded the dark. This would-be acolyte was commanded only by his own passions.

A master of the dark he would never be, only a pawn.

The blood of many stained his hands, yet not one drop stained his conscience – perhaps the only thing in his favor.

And he hated young Kenobi with a passion. It was personal, this hate. Betrayal was scorched deep in his scarred soul. What _had_ young Kenobi done to earn this enmity?

As for himself, he both loathed and admired said Jedi – hated him for rendering him short an apprentice; coveted him for what the potential he had once shown and might yet again. A magnificent Sith, once purged of light.

A detestable Jedi, if he could not be.

This dark-poseur who dared approach him and had even dared to offer Kenobi in sacrifice to the altar of his personal ambition was a weakling; one who sacrificed not out of strength, but of fear. Weaklings succumbed all too soon – poof – dissolved in an acid of their own making.

Yet Kenobi, this scion of light, by all that Sidious could discern, was weak by misadventure, not character. Yoda and Windu both championed the boy. No true Jedi would elevate one person's well being over the good of their Order without cause – did they fear the boy's vulnerability to the dark if dismissed from their oversight? So they should, so they should. When Sidious finally had Kenobi within his claws, he would rebuild the broken young man into a fearsome creature of dark.

If the boy _could _be rebuilt, that is. That was yet to be seen.

However, his ability to read the stirrings in the Force told the Sith otherwise. Logical analysis told him that the recent strange dampening in the Force was a pathetic attempt to mask something – and one simply did not protect the impotent.

But who did Kenobi threaten? Did the Jedi suspect it was their pathetic little Order?

They would find out in short order for he knew the instinct to survive must – and would - awaken that potential.

He would pit the false Jedi against the desired one. One would fall and one would rise. He had no doubt of the outcome. There would be a sacrifice all right – a preening, overconfident, arrogant young Sith-wannabee to a man who could draw on the power of the Force to wrest another from death. In defending himself, young Kenobi would find his strength – and the strength to hate the one who had forsaken him. Once the desire for revenge was awoken, once the stench of retaliation scorched his mind, then the Jedi would fall, only to rise a Sith.

And then, it would be as he had foreseen. The two of them together, side by side. At their feet – the once glorious Jedi Order, dead and obliterated. Against them, allied, not even the Chosen One would stand – not if he stood in the light as foretold by the prophecy.

He almost rubbed his hands in glee.

Instead, he swiveled in his seat, wiping a pleasant smile upon his kindly face.

"Welcome, Master Jinn and Padawan Skywalker; I am so terribly pleased you accepted my invitation. And just how is our dear Padawan Kenobi, the third hero of Naboo?"

That vibroshiv had been buried some time ago – by Qui-Gon Jinn, no less- and left to fester in the wound. The shiver in the Force proved his words were the blade twisting even deeper.

Only Sidious knew the true source of the smile that graced his lips.

* * *

"Careful now, careful, Tadeo. We don't want to kill him if by any chance he's still alive."

"Might be the best thing for him if we did," was the candid answer from the second, older man who was carefully nudging the sand-blasted bundle sprawled before them both. A man.

The first speaker, a young man barely into his adulthood, kneeled and gingerly laid a hand on the injured man, feeling for a pulse. It was there, thready and erratic. The man lived; how was the question neither man bothered to voice. Clothed in tattered brown cloth, this wanderer and near victim of something undetermined had had the fortune – good fortune or misfortune yet to be determined – to lie right in the path of the two passing men.

His hands were blackened and blistered, a cheekbone was clearly broken, and bruises littered the visible landscape of his flesh.

It was a miracle, both settlers agreed; the man was alive, but badly injured. How he had come to be there or why was something they might never know. But in the wastelands, one didn't waste precious time asking questions without answers.

You cured what ailed them. You gave them life if you could; a quick, merciful death if you couldn't. Bones bleached white littered the sands and eroded under wind, sun and grit to merciless bits and pieces that flayed the skin off the living when the dust storms smothered the landscape.

The weak didn't last long. Life was lived on a fragile edge here: on one side life, on the other oblivion.

"Watch that arm, will you, I think the shoulder's dislocated. Gently now, Tadeo. Lucky for this one, town's a few klicks away. He might have a chance."

The older man, who knew all too well the fragile tether of life all walked here, only shook his head. "Eustace Moonshadow, we be doing a foolish thing here. Merciful, you think we are, but," he shook his head and spat tobac into the sand, "merciless I say it is. We should cut his throat. Look at them burns. You heard his bones grate. Thank us for interrupting his dying, he won't – or wouldn't, if he could speak. He's still goin' to die. Just going to take longer this way."

"Let him curse us to hell, then, when he's dead. Can't be any worse than here, now can it?"

The older man guffawed and scratched an ear. "Might even be a pleasant oasis compared to here," Tadeo agreed grudgingly.

* * *

No word, no word as yet. Had "the problem" been dealt with – not that BB always reported back on how he "took care of the problem" but he always made sure to report his successes. To boast.

And this was no ordinary "problem." This had to do with Shmi's son, and therefore incidentally with him.

Schmi's son. Anakin.

"Mis'tah," a high voice piped as a grubby hand pulled at his trouser leg. "Play with me?"

The man known by many and sundry names – The Boss, Mr. "O", that "*%*$*," and oh, so many other names, both flattering and not – looked down and was struck silent. The small boy at his feet could have been Shmi's son at that age – same tow head, same bright, curious eyes – about the age when Anakin had begun his training as a weapon. The eyes of a child, innocent and – nothing like the eyes that same Anakin now wore. Eyes _he_ had put on that child, not slavery. This orphan child, this one of many surrounding him in the orphanage on one of his rare visits, should have known nothing of innocence.

He, too, had been robbed of it, did he not know?

What was this child's name? He didn't know; he didn't care. Did he? He was an orphan, made so by his own orders. He was one who wished only that "Mister" would play with him.

"Mister," because to this child, as to the rest, there was no "father, dad, or daddy." Nor mother, either. Just the company of each other and the caretakers, and the occasional visitor, or hopeful "family unit" – usually couplets or triplets - seeking a child they could not themselves have – or had lost.

Within the heart that did not exist, a pang made itself known, only to vanish before it could be banished.

"Of course, I'll play with you," he said indulgently, surprising himself. He rarely visited the orphanages he funded, but had he a heart, here it could be found – assuming, of course that he wished to find and claim one. He had no need of a heart; he had lived most of his years minus one, after all, and survived. Nor had he need or wish of a heart in the pleasure houses, places he visited far more frequently. Only a fool sought solace for a heart in such places. Commodities were exchanged there only – a few credits, a few caresses, a few moments pleasure expressed in naked flesh.

Idly he wondered if any of these orphans might be his. How many unsatisfactory companions had he shunted to cheap brothels, some perhaps quickening with child, unwanted byproducts of a fruitful and unsatisfying union? He bought bodies with wine and sweet words and what came after was not his concern, whether or not it was of his making. So he had always told himself.

"Mis'tah." The child took his hand and led him to a table, with flimsies and coloring sticks. "Let's draw." The child beamed and threw him a smile.

A smile, trusting and oh so innocent. That inconvenient and oh so non-existent heart that existed in name only, an organ to pump blood and maintain life, thumped.

The child had thrown a smile at him!

He threw much at others – largesse at those he would benefit, hardship at those he despised. He threw things and he threw still more away – and a pang of regret touched him at the realization. He had everything he wanted, but he never had enough. All he had was gone – thrown away and replaced in turn.

Except her.

And he would never have her – because he would have only thrown her away, too. As he had before, and so he had left her instead, before the pain of loss grew too deep. Against his heart, he left her, because she didn't fit his definition of what belonged within it. Only by her absence, did he know.

Know, that his heart must still exist, even if shrunk and decayed, atrophied by disuse.

"Mis'tah, for you."

The beaming child handed him his crude artwork, smudged and dirty and unexplainably beautiful.

A heart, for him.

Without a word, he took the artwork in shaking hands – and fled, clutching the flimsy within hands that would not - could not – let go.

* * *

_Awakening he is_, the Force whispered to Mace a few hours later, prompting him to gather a cup of hot caf. Just "how back" was Obi-Wan and what explanations would he provide? Did he remember the attack, or more importantly, the attacker?

A slight rustle of blankets marked the young man's slow return to consciousness; a half-covered yawn was so open and unguarded that Mace actually smiled.

A blink or two and a puzzled visual sweep of the room came next.

"Good morning, how do you feel?" Mace advanced into the room and sat on the side of the bed. Obi-Wan seemed a bit disoriented to his mind, but he cleared his throat and managed a soft reply, more an "oomph" than actual words as he turned onto his back. A hand flashed to his head and he winced.

His look of befuddlement might have been funny at another time, to another person. To Mace Windu, it was not.

"Are you in pain?"

Lips parted, but no words came out. The young man blinked and turned his head away, nodding slightly.

"Obi-Wan," Mace said firmly, setting the cup down and grasping the young man's hands. "Look at me. I know it's safer to cocoon yourself in silence, but it isn't healthy. I'm not expecting you to organize a drunken orgy within the Temple," he watched as a pink tinge colored the face of the young man; then continue briskly, "because such a thing should never be called to a Council member's attention unless said Councilor is invited as well…there, I've missed that smile."

It wasn't the full smile that captivated a room even of cynical politicians, but it was an attempt.

"Now, you've struggled back once more and I know it's hard. Your mind has a mind of its own and one you don't recognize, but you can push past some of the damage. Don't let it take control of you – take control of what is within your grasp. The rest will come later."

Obi-Wan slowly nodded and sat up against the pillows, fingers wearily kneading his temples. "I – I…," he all but stuttered, but encouraged by Mace's squeeze of his fingers, tried hard to push the words out.

"I – I feel like… two banthas sat on me. Or - kicked me. Or," Obi-Wan tried a tentative smile as his voice grew stronger, "or that Master Yoda suddenly went Sith and whacked the heck out of me with his stick."

Genuine amusement radiated from Mace's eyes and his tone was dry in a way terribly reminiscent of Obi-Wan at his driest. "I don't think the little troll would be terribly pleased to hear that comment, considering something seems to have 'whacked the heck' out of you."

"That explains the banthas." Obi-Wan's half-hearted grin faded as the words registered. "What – happened?" A hand explored his side, a puzzled look accompanying a wince.

So much for hoping…Mace inwardly sighed. "You don't remember?"

"N – no," he whispered. "Did I have another seizure; I thought I was long past those."

"You had an – accident, of some kind or other." Mace deliberated: should he tell the truth? It might put Obi-Wan on guard, but it could as well backfire. He was already dealing with more than any one person could be reasonably expected to cope with. He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, patting Obi-Wan's knee. "I suppose you remember what happened that time Qui-Gon and I left a tumbler of alcohol in the cooler never suspecting a thirteen-year-old padawan to mistake it for something else?"

"Oh, Force!" Obi-Wan gulped. How could he have forgotten? He'd thought the glass of amber liquid was merely juice, downing it in one quick gulp before he'd realized different and then heading off to a gymnastic class.

He had never been in such close touch with the Force, or so he'd thought, tumbling with no effort, vaulting with grace, and walking the beam as only one in communion with the Force – or accidentally drunk – could do. Then everything around him had somersaulted, everything else had spun in dizzying array. Faces – voices – objects receded and advanced; the floor became a wall and the wall smacked him.

After a terrified giggle he remembered nothing, nothing until he had woken up in Qui-Gon's arms, the big Jedi stroking his head and telling him to lie still.

"_I'm sorry, Obi-Wan, I'm sorry." _

He'd never seen that light in his master's eyes, that worry and shame mixed. Qui-Gon had been a good teacher, a somewhat distant man it was true, but kind and considerate since their pairing not long before.

A hand had wavered up and patted that bearded face, the padawan suddenly needing to wipe the worry away.

"Not – nots you. Clumsssssssy. Oh….my head," he'd moaned, nestling against his master's chest. Suddenly he'd been flying, or as it had turned out, been lifted in his master's arms and taken to the healers for what had turned out to be only the first of many mishaps as a padawan and another new nickname, "Drunky-Wan."

He hadn't cared.

He'd seen that look in Qui-Gon's eyes, drunk or not, in pain or not. Real affection. Real worry. Real guilt. More than that, he had seen Home. He was where he belonged, with whom he belonged. No nickname could interfere with that.

Only a bright-eyed boy with a mop of blond hair and a destiny. Qui-Gon's legacy. Qui-Gon's apprentice.

"I don't think I've had a drink since – since that last time M-Master – Jinn and I…." He took a deep breath, fighting to steady his voice. Why had he to behave like an emotional child? He was trained to deal with his emotions to avoid such moments as now beset him. "How did I get hurt?"

After some deliberation on his words, Mace kept his explanation short and to the point.

"I found you in one of the training rooms when you didn't return for dinner… nearly a week ago. You were in, well, a catatonic-like state. A lot of us were pretty worried about you. We don't really know what happened, but we thought you had suffered a relapse of some kind." _Well, at least Yoda thought so __until he__ had a look for himself. It is the truth – in a way._

"A week ago!" The young man's eyes widened in disbelief; he blinked once and looked away, visibly wilting. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble, Master Windu -"

"No more of that, Obi-Wan." He squeezed the young man's shoulder, sensing the flood of emotions pouring through him. Gratitude, shame, and guilt predominated. "Apologize for events you had control over, nothing else. You've been ill and sadly mistreated; you can hardly be blamed for that."

Obi-Wan swiped at his eyes. "Perhaps not," he slowly admitted, but looked up, cheeks flushing. "My reactions should be in _my_ control. I'm supposed to be an adult, a _Jedi_, yet here I again sniffle like a crèchling and force you to play nursemaid to another master's castoff. Such behavior is inexcusable for a Jedi, yet you tolerate it. Why?"

"Why?" Mace stared. The boy's mind was misfiring and he wanted to know _why_ he wasn't _admonished_?

He cleared his throat. He preferred his gruff and forbidding Jedi persona, a buffer to the harsh realities of a Jedi's life. Some Jedi were able to shield their souls with merely the Force; he preferred something a little more concrete as a backup. A tender-hearted Jedi could only become in time a hard-hearted Jedi.

"It's the right thing to do, that's why. You often are the first to line to help someone in need, in case you don't remember, and we Council members can't be shown up by a padawan, now can we? You're here because I want you here, if that's what you're asking. If you're asking why I tolerate this 'behavior' from a senior padawan who is ready to be knighted, well– it's because I'm well aware it's your injury affecting you in ways large and small. I'd quite properly chastise you under other circumstances."

Mace reflected rather sourly that he was treading dangerously close to – "nice and understanding." To keep in practice, and to make sure he still could, he growled in the back of his throat and directed a somewhat unsuccessful glare at Obi-Wan.

Apparently the young man missed both cues, or didn't care, or – a disturbing thought – thought it unworthy of response. After this time, had he lost his ability to intimidate the boy? Just offered knighthood, should he now be offered mastership?

What was next, sitting on the Council?

Sitting upright with his blanket twisted around his waist, and ignorant of the older Jedi's thoughts, Obi-Wan offered, much like an initiate who wasn't convinced of a lesson and had to grasp it by repeating it, "I know there's not always a reason, that life is not always fair or just. But I have this feeling…like the Force is trying to tell me something and I'm – I'm not listening. That I have the answers within me as why all these things are happening and that I'm meant to make them right somehow. But I can't _do_ anything; all I do is _feel_ things. I'm haunted by questions without answers, like 'why' all this happened, so suddenly, from out of nowhere – "

He felt his chin lifted and his eyes found Master Windu's – calm, warm, and understanding.

"That's no surprise. Actually, a change of scenery might do you good…Master Dooku is returning to the Temple and has spoken to us about taking you for a quick trip to Serrano – what?"

"Master Dooku?" Obi-Wan cleared his throat, his brow wrinkled in honest confusion. He barely knew the man or the man him. What would the Jedi master want with him? He'd kept his distance throughout his entire apprenticeship with Master Qui-Gon. "Why?" That one word encompassed all his doubts and uncertainties.

"He's…less than pleased with recent events."

"So he wants to try to straighten me out." Obi-Wan nodded and straightened his shoulders.

Now it was Master Windu's turn to look surprised. "No, to do what he can. He's concerned – you're his grand-padawan after all. He never, ah, intervened in the past because he feared he might cause unnecessary strife and now – well, strife has already severed one bond. He chooses to step forward now because he feels he can offer assistance that would have been shunned in the past."

Fingers twisted and untwisted until Obi-Wan realized what he was doing. He frowned and stilled them, studying them unhappily. "He doesn't approve of me and never has."

Led by an impulse with no logical rationale, Mace tousled his hair and informed him, "Quite the opposite in fact. He flat-out told Qui-Gon to shape up. He was convinced not just that you needed Qui-Gon's trust and affection to thrive, but that Qui-Gon needed yours, as well. I think he was right; neither of you are well since," Mace winced and hesitated. Since Qui-Gon went inexplicably mad…but he could hardly say that.

"Since he listened to the Force," Obi-Wan murmured.

"No!" The vehemence in his voice startled even Mace. And it was the truth. Horribly, gloriously, the truth. And that meant…

…Mace had some real sleuthing to do.


	52. March of Fate

Gah - no internet (except moments here and there at work)...you're lucky to get this update.

* * *

**Chapter 52. March of Fate**

Jedi Master Dooku drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. A journey of many hours had inexplicably turned into a journey of many days, considering the ship had been forced planetside for repairs.

A rather desolate place, too, where one had little chance of merely switching ships to continue one's journey.

It brought back memories of another such interrupted journey, some years back. In fact, he realized, it had been a day of first steps into new journeys. Coincidence in some ways, yet an uncanny one, if so.

The man he was on the way to see, his grand padawan, had been born this day. Few knew the story of his birth. Few Jedi did, in truth, given to the Order with little but a birth date and a name.

"Watch this one, we shall," Yoda had said.

"Is he – special?"

A soft grunt greeted the question. "No more and no less special than any other yet the Force's affection he holds….."

"Affection?" It was Dooku's turn to grunt. "There is little room in a Jedi's life for affection. Wisdom, scruples, strength – that is what a Jedi needs, not a heart."

"From where springs compassion but the heart, and compassion is the heart of a Jedi," Yoda corrected him, frowning.

"Too much compassion begats distractions and loss of focus," Dooku dared to correct the grandmaster of the Order.

"If not in harmony with the mind," Yoda agreed, unperturbed. "Of your own padawan you are thinking. Balances he does those who have too little compassion. Good for the Order that is."

No more had been said on the subject, but since Yoda had watched the infant from afar, then the toddler, then the youngster – so, too, had Dooku. He had indeed been nothing special but the Force had never been far from him.

Another journey had begun as well that day, one that would end in calamity. That was the day that Qui-Gon decided Xanatos was ready to build his own lightsaber. Only nine months into his apprenticeship, it had been. Claiming to have been nudged by the Force while in meditation - the same had been claimed for his decision to take Xanatos as his padawan - Qui-Gon had decided Xanatos was ready to go to Ilum. The nine months of apprenticeship had culminated in Qui-Gon's proudest to that date, he had once said.

Years later and not so long ago, an older and wiser Jedi, he had confessed he knew now that that day was yet to come- it would be the day he knighted his current padawan.

Now that that day would never come, the aged Jedi master had to wonder: at the end of his days, what then would Qui-Gon consider his proudest moment?

* * *

Deep in the bowels of the Jedi Temple, in the forgotten and inconveniently chilly lower levels where he had made his temporary lair, one who had never expected to return to his childhood home dreamed of the day he would be clothed in shimmersilk and bantha hide rather than the somewhat ill-fitting filched Jedi clothing. It chafed him. Being here chafed him. The memories here chafed him.

Someday he would rest on mattresses piled high with the finest of linens, eat from the finest crystal and cavort with the most beautiful the galaxy had to offer. His every word would be law, every flick of his finger instantly obeyed.

He would lord over the galaxy rather than serve it, Master of the Force, a Sith Master commanding its power rather than subservient to it.

In that world to come, if a man could be both dead and dominated, Kenobi would cower at his feet, satisfy his every whim, take any abuse he chose to bestow with a smile, submissive and oh so compliant.

But Kenobi would not. Dead men did not grovel and scrape – but a dying Kenobi would, if BB killed him properly - that is to say slowly and painfully.

The sneer turned to a smirk, to a giggle – to a frown.

_Do nothing as yet 'til I command you_.

The current Sith lord had ordered BB - to do nothing. The not-yet-anointed newest Sith chafed at his new orders, orders which in reality were no different than his old orders. _Observe and report_.

Sith didn't _observe_ and they certainly didn't report.

Sith _did_.

They fed on guilt and shame, they engorged themselves on fear and terror and they excreted souls and lives in turn. He had without doubt taken yet another and could have – would have – taken still another except for mischance and misfortune.

So while Jorak was dead, Kenobi lived!

And Jinn, that interfering, inconvenient, insufferable Jedi was the reason why. Somehow, someway, this Jedi managed to save Kenobi, time and again! It mattered little that Jinn was the reason for the brat's need for salvation. When it mattered, Jinn was there.

The Monument – Jinn was there to treat the bruises. Bandomeer – Jinn rescued the boy from obscurity; Melida/Daan – Jinn yet again. Always reluctantly the savior, it was true; dragged kicking and screaming to do the Force's will against his own heart.

Just when the Force's will and his heart had conspired in unison to jettison the worthless scum – Jinn inexplicably saved him yet again, nearly surprising BB in the commission of his heart's desire.

The Force had a perverse and unappreciated sense of humor.

BB did not.

He did have a healthy sense of self-preservation however – and in no uncertain terms he had been told Kenobi was off limits.

Up until just a few minutes ago.

"_You have hardly recommended yourself to me."_ The derision and scorn in the raspy voice had stiffened his spine. _"Yet your – perseverance – has been admirable. I have a test for you, my new apprentice, a test of self-restraint. Should you succeed…."_

"_I succeed, Master!"_

_A gloved hand waved negligently; "A grandiose boast and one that does not impress me. Only results do." A finger stabbed at him, a vibroblade in bony flesh and its edge just as deadly. "Your greatest nemesis lives, does he not?" _

_Anger darkened his features as he glared back. "Jinn –" Jinn_, who had never deigned to save him; had never spared him a word or a glance. Jinn, who had grown to love Kenobi after all until The Boss decided it would be otherwise with the willing connivance of BB and the less willing connivance of some slave woman's brat, the offspring of any one of hundreds of possible "liaisons." The Boss did not share well, so why was he was so enamored of this one? Perhaps he fancied himself so much better in her arms? Such would appeal to his conceit.

Perhaps, perhaps she was quite the talent herself, someone to seek out and sample himself?

"_Jinn should not hinder you." The Sith's hiss pulled him back from the delectable images of tangled bodies filling his mind. "No man, no Jedi, should hinder you. The Force itself should not hinder you. A Sith makes circumstances work for him, rather than let them make excuses for him."_

"_As your last apprentice did?" he dared to taunt, though he masked the edge of insolence behind a nearly courteous inquiry. In the shadows, eyes gleamed yellow. Score one for _that_ retort!_

"_Maul paid the price for his arrogance and incompetence. Kenobi seemed better suited to my needs, so I made use of him without his knowledge. It was my hand guiding his arm, my mind that gave him the strategy to live and my anger that gave him the strength. He was destined to be become mine – only Jinn's slow death pulled Kenobi back from the dark; his desire to save his most 'beloved master' from the Force's embrace. Yet in denying the Force's will, he proved he could be mine and still half was. He still can be. Or you can. Whichever of you lives when I pit the two of you against each other…." _

_A hoarse cackle had been the exclamation to his warning._

"_I shall emerge victorious, "BB boasted. _

"_In time you shall have your chance, but later. I wish to test your – obedience first. Apprehend the boy and apprehend Kenobi – bring them to me. The boy may wait, a few years even, but Kenobi – I wish him shackled to the Dark before long."_

Sure, just knock Jinn over the head; unleash him from Windu and the job's done, promotion gained, ahead one step to galactic domination.

"_Oh, and do stop giggling. It is so un-Sith-like," Sidious growled and cut the transmission._

* * *

"Are you a fool, my master?"

This was, of course, not the proper way to address the grand master, but then Dooku had never been all that conventional a Jedi. Perhaps his time contemplating accepting his inheritance had increased his natural arrogance, or perhaps it was that coupled with his deep concern for those he considered "his family" within the Order.

And because one did not display weakness, no matter how one might feel about blurting out such words, rather than apologize he raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

Yoda gazed back at his old padawan without so much a twitch of his ears. "Many foolish mistakes have I made in my long life. Yet a fool that does not make me unless to your words or those of the Force I close my ears. What prompts these words to your old master?"

Accepting the gestured invitation to sit, Dooku contemplated the diminutive Jedi. As with his padawan, there had always been a distant affection towards his former master. Distant, as if he had feared closeness, or perhaps the withdrawal of closeness. He armored himself against pain and disillusionment with distance. Perhaps that was why his grand-padawan drew him – he had no such armor.

_Obi-Wan Kenobi_.

A cool, reserved personality many thought, those who glanced and looked away, those who saw but did not see: those changeable, chameleon eyes – eyes that opened into the padawan's soul. The boy had learned discipline, how to let emotions flow through him and into the Force, but those emotions had and always would shape him; would reveal themselves, if only in the eyes.

All his joys and all his sorrows and always – always behind them, shone the Force itself.

The tapestry of that one was woven in the placid blue of serenity and the sparkling crystal of humility, in the green of life and the gray of sorrows. A few, like Qui-Gon, were more like an ocean in constant movement, ebbing in and out as the life force around them shifted. Some, like Dooku himself, were akin to polished jewels, each aspect of their personality a facet edged in angles.

He had never allowed himself to indulge in sorrow or grief; he had avoided regrets and shunned anxiety. In so doing, Dooku was coming to realize, he had missed much of what life had to offer - he had never felt the swell of joy, never felt warmed by the good in life - he had been satisfied, content even, to live life in a straight line, uncomplicated, simple. Dissatisfied, as well, with inefficiency and waste, the vagaries of life lived without discipline that inevitably impacted his own.

Yes, he had missed major disappointments this way, but he had missed much more as well. He had not truly experienced life. Unbalanced he had been, risking tipping too far towards the rationality of the mind at the expense of the heart – and a Jedi without a heart was no true servant of the Force.

For a moment Dooku envied Qui-Gon, who felt all that life had to offer while being at the same time one who could get so lost in his feelings that he misplaced the feelings of others – but no, he didn't envy a man who could so obliviously destroy his greatest treasure without remorse. His former padawan was just as unbalanced, it seemed, as he himself.

Kenobi might yet prove the bridge between them, though if so, it was a cruel use of the boy – man – by the Force.

"Changed you have, my old padawan."

Warm approval shone in Yoda's eyes and Dooku felt warmth spread through him. Felt both the other's affection and felt his own rising in gratitude. "I have missed you, Yoda." And he meant it, from the bottom of his heart.

Since they were both Jedi, they let the moment swirl between them and eventually away, but the warmth remained.

After a moment's contemplation, Yoda prompted Dooku to speak. "What insights did you wish to bestow on me, Padawan?"

Ah, yes, that. Dooku tapped an elegant finger against his thigh and leaned forward. "Not an insight to share, but a question I am compelled to ask. How do you explain your – passivity – to what is happening to my padawan and my padawan's padawan?"

"Passivity, you say." Yoda's ears curled and he gazed sharply at the younger Jedi. "Observe I do, follow the Force's promptings."

"As do I."

Yoda gazed at him for a long moment; then nodded, pleased. "A Jedi you have decided to remain."

"Don't change the subject."

"Same subject it is!" Yoda tapped his gimer stick against the floor, looking up from heavy-lidded eyes. "Prompted by the Force, hmm?"

Dooku bowed. To anyone else, he might have raised a sardonic eyebrow. To Yoda, it was unthinkable. Sixty years a full Jedi and he could manage to stand his ground with his old master. Intimidate him – never.

"Young Kenobi's plight brought you home."

_Oh, it is far more complicated than that_.

"No, not exactly. The Force brought me home. I have an errant padawan who needs his head examined and a grand-padawan who needs his head fixed."

"Examined Qui-Gon's head has been – still hard it is," Yoda muttered.

"Your grand-padawan he is."

"Hmph." The grunt was an acknowledgement. The line through Yoda was as exalted a line as the Order would judge such things, but it was a line full of proud and stubborn Jedi – a gift or a curse, no one was quite sure.

"I'd like to see young Kenobi before anything else – what?"

"Lost our young one has been…ready to see anyone not a friend he might not yet be."

That straightened Dooku up in his seat. Why then had the Force urged him to return? Was he there, not for Kenobi, but for Qui-Gon? Or for Anakin, the boy of prophecy and mayhem?

"What is lost can be found, Padawan, once the path becomes clear."

Dooku really wished Yoda would stop speaking in riddles. Yet when he did, relaying the past events, Dooku rather wished they had been couched in ambiguous terms. One could find comfort in gray whereas only harsh realities could be found in black and white.

Had he returned, far too late?

Knowing that pushing for answers would yield none, Dooku changed tactics: he informed Yoda that he wished to speak to the healer most familiar with the case.

"Disappeared he has," he was informed.

A Jedi master was too well schooled to display disbelief, but displayed or not, Yoda knew, perhaps by his very silence. By the snap in his voice, Yoda was concerned as well.

"On a mission he was. Expected to check in on a regular schedule he was not, but – too long it has been. Worrisome, I find it."

* * *

Obi-Wan somehow refrained from twisting his hands in uncertainty. Master Dooku had returned to the Temple and wanted to see him. The same master who had counseled Qui-Gon to "give him up" once, long ago, and whose master had finally done so. The same master who would see his initial assessment to be correct.

Master Windu had assured him Master Dooku had his best interests in mind. But what was best, not just for him, but the Order? He was the source of disharmony. He felt it; that he was at the center of a storm that would soon spiral into chaos.

Wasn't that what the dreams were trying to tell him?


	53. Serenity Breached

**Chapter 53. Serenity Breached**

Sidious was under no delusions as to his "so-called" new apprentice. The man had impressive shields but a mind as warped as his had more cracks and sieves in it than a crumbling dam to a Sith.

The fool saw himself as following a path to a life of luxury. He could be useful, he would be useful. He would never be a Sith.

He would be a means to awaken the sleeping power inside one Obi-Wan Kenobi, for that power slumbered, he was certain. One so consciously wedded to the Light understandably shied from power, shied away from what he feared – and fear was one of many paths to the dark. Fear of the dark power that propelled him forward at the fall of his master, fear of the immense power that healed that same man.

A sane man, a sane Jedi, would rather forsake that power than invoke it.

But invoke it Obi-Wan Kenobi would; the Force had shown him that. How or why, even when was yet hidden, but Sidious had seen enough of the future to know that when it was time, Obi-Wan Kenobi would rise, stronger than ever, and woe to those whom he opposed.

And he suspected that this so-called Jedi might be the means to unlock it.

Such a pawn of his own desires, this eager acolyte-wannabe. Sidious did not doubt this one had ambition. He burned for revenge against the one who stole his life and cast him to ignominy. Lust was slowly consuming him, especially now that he had been placed in close proximity to the object of such lust. It was all rather amusing to contemplate.

Inhaling deeply, Sidious let the tickles of desire tremor up and down his nerves. How he would love to see this confrontation he claimed to be against. It would be stimulating, so stimulating he was almost tempted to be assured he would not be alone at such time. But one passion could not be allowed to overshadow another; he would feast from a distance now that he had access to this one.

All his secrets, one by one, were his to pluck and plunder, but, he thought, he would let them ripen and rot yet awhile. Secrets were, like wine, better aged.

Sith were as well.

* * *

Anakin Skywalker had been taught to hate.

By the derision and scorn of those free men and women who saw he and his mother - all slaves, in truth, not just them - to be lesser beings to be commanded and humiliated, commanded and judged. By the scarcity of abundant food which had his mother doing without to feed a growing boy, by the long hours that kept him from his mother's love and guidance. By the cold nights that stole his warmth as he trudged shivering to open Watto's shop while his mother rubbed sleep from her eyes as she bent over her worktable and by the blistering heat as he ran errands during the day.

By indifference and greed.

By those who saw two slaves, not two people – those who had owned or surrounded him, such as Gardulla, who had delighted in heaping abuse on his mother. By Watto, who believed he had the right to expect calluses and blood from Shmi's finger tips, fingers that should be tending her son's bruises and wiping his tears, and by those who aimed their feet and vile invectives, those Mos Espa transient multitudes, directed at the slave errand boy who had learned how to evade their grasping hands and their cutting words nearly at the same time he had learned just to walk.

But Anakin had also been taught how to love – by a mother who suffered any abuse, endured any request if by doing so, such abuse and such acts were directed away from her son. By a mother whose unsteady fingers brushed his tears away and whose swollen lips kissed him good night; by bruised hands that tucked their two thin blankets around his shoulders whilst she shivered without.

If hatred was without, love was within. Home was a haven amidst the hell.

Until _he_ had come into their lives and their very home; he into Shmi's bed and into Anakin's fears. His mother had toiled on her back to protect her boy and her boy had toiled at his side to learn to wield the tools of hate to keep her alone there.

And then the Jedi, the Angel and the Jester had come with their plea, not demand: help us, if you will. And then the Jedi, the Angel and the Jester had left, this time with Shmi's son, and Shmi herself was left behind.

And his mother, he prayed, was left alone.

To keep her so, Anakin had embraced his destiny with open arms and an apprehensive heart. The Jedi had become a sought after means to an end: freedom. Freedom: from the tyranny of the cruel taskmaster who molded a boy into a weapon to one; freedom: from the tyranny of the self-righteous and the guardians of justice to another, one neither righteous nor just.

And so their plans coincided and the weapon's wielder and the weapon shared a common purpose: destroy the Jedi generally, and Qui-Gon Jinn specifically. Remove the padawan that was and replace him with the padawan to be. Plant suspicion and distrust, ever so carefully; plant the fertile ground of imagination and water it with the hopes of prophecy come to life.

The plan succeeded spectacularly.

Qui-Gon Jinn heard the Force and felt its guiding hand. The Force, aided and abetted by three skilled Force users, saw to it that its Child claimed his destiny and his future; a destiny and a future that would destroy that of another. The fateful step was taken and the insidious plot set in play.

Act One now followed the prologue: the removal of one Obi-Wan Kenobi. Qui-Gon Jinn would be driven to repudiate his padawan in the most destructive way possible, thus forever removing the padawan as a threat and leaving the Jedi master susceptible to his winning replacement.

As in real life, no plan, no matter how cunning, no matter how ingenious, can help but stumble over the unexpected and the unforeseen.

Anakin fell hard.

The Jedi master's gentle humor and warm affection had won his devotion as the padawan had earned his hate for the spot he had already claimed in that same heart.

He had known as soon as he heard Qui-Gon speak of his padawan to his mother: Obi-Wan Kenobi would not easily be shaken from the Jedi master's affections. What's more, he was instantly jealous of that affection, even though he had been gifted the same. This transgression was personal; this against Anakin: a threat to his ability to secure that affection entirely to himself.

A boy who had little clung to what he did have for fear of it being taken away: the boy had found the father he had never had and a brother he did not want: the one who had first claim on the affection Anakin longed for and the affection lost to him with his mother's absence.

"_Qui-Gon Jinn is a powerful Jedi, but a foolish and shortsighted one as well; he is all too easily manipulated by those who know his weaknesses." _And so he had been persuaded his beloved padawan was a coward and a failure, a cruel and devious man; persuaded to push his almost-grown chick from the nest to be replaced by a devil masquerading as an innocent chick, a waif of the Force needing a guiding wing.

But that same soft heart that had freely given itself to Anakin as promised had not given it to Anakin alone; deep inside it had not relinquished the publicly repudiated one. That same heart wept for its loss while the mind remained oblivious and convinced the disgraced one had been evicted.

For that Anakin would never forgive Kenobi.

_He_ had been most displeased with his tool's attacks upon the padawan, for the master wished to extricate his own revenge against the apprentice_. _

"_Kenobi is mine to destroy, little da'emon; not yours. He is already half destroyed, and by Qui-Gon Jinn himself. The final blow shall be his to deliver as well, the better my revenge."_

"_I have nearly killed him more than once; he was powerless against me." And I would have – should have, he mentally boasted. I am the Chosen One, after all. _

"_Little one, be not so proud – he is powerless for now against all. He is mine to kill through Qui-Gon Jinn, not yours. For now he languishes alone and unwanted."_

"_Then why haven't you killed him?" He dared to be cheeky, believing distance to be an adequate defense. "I almost did – twice. You're not powerful enough, are you? I'm the 'Chosen One' born of the Force – " He squawked, suddenly unable to breath or break free of the intangible grasp._

"_Whelp of MY body you are. Your mother was just a means to my ends; she was the garden from which the Chosen One would spring, only I made sure the seeds scattered there were mine. You are the Chosen One because they are foolish enough to believe so – and that is all that matters."_

"_I have no father," he spat back once he had caught his breath. Claim _he_ might to be parent in biology, but he was no father, only stern taskmaster and disciplinarian. His mother had been a free woman and untouched by a man, any man, when he had been conceived. Her freedom and her innocence had been stolen while he was yet a child in her womb. She would bear her son into slavery and after initiation into the cruel rites of forced submission not many months after. _

_The truth was his only buttress against the lies to come._

"_Your mother does not wish to remember the nights I spent trying to father the 'Chosen One' upon her; she who was who meant to be mother to you. The prophecy never made mention of the father so I chose that role as mine." The lips cracked in a smile. 'Long ago I planted the notion of prophecies within Jinn's mind; he responded as programmed."_

_The head bent forward, raven locks falling over his forehead. _

"_You are my spawn; my creation. I found her– stimulating. I was not," there was a strange hesitation between the words, "gentle with her, but I was willing to -" another slight hesitation, almost a softness to the voice in contrast to the cruelty of the words, "help her forget. It made the pain and humiliation so much more delectable each successive attempt to father you. She cried in my arms when I returned each time – until you, my sweet child, were finally created. For that gift, I gave your mother forgetfulness. Your mother birthed you and your mother raised you, but I, dear son, am the one who gave you the knowledge and the skill to wield your power._

"_I am, remember, the one who can take it away as well."_

And the memory, the nightmare faded…replaced by the onetime memory of his mother's hands clutching the shoulder blades of a muscular fair-skinned back in rhythmic motion, a tango of two knotted bodies amidst crumpled sheets and the nearly silent whimpers of a slave woman who knew only that submission protected her son.

"No…no, Mom, no!" Anakin bolted upright, only to be gathered into strong arms. He fought blindly, small fists flying until his arms were gently pinned to his side.

"Child. Young One, wake up."

Anakin's gaze cleared to see a worried face bent over him. "M – master. He was here, Master, he was here."

"Who was here?"

His mother's face, tight with pain; his mother's voice, soft cries and moans, filled his being.

"Who was here, Ani?" The voice was insistent. "Who was," the voice trembled, "who invaded your mind?"

"Obi-Wan!" he blurted out. He couldn't tell; he couldn't. His mother's life was forfeit if he so much as breathed one word. The truth was a stone that weighed down his heart; the lie lifted that burden.

* * *

Even Qui-Gon Jinn knew better than to stalk the hallways of the Temple and barge into Mace Windu's quarters at nighttime. A purple lightsaber would be at his throat before he could be at his former padawan's throat.

Strangely enough, it was also that thought that gave him pause. Mace Windu, no matter his faults, would know – have to know – if he harbored a – a – mind-rapist, a practitioner of the dark arts, which in turn argued that his former padawan had not done what he had been accused of.

But Anakin had been truly terrified.

"Oh, Force," he moaned into his hands, wondering if he was going mad, or if it was the world around him. And in truth, the voice of the Force had stopped shrieking its litany, its very damnation of he-who-had-come-before not all that long ago.

With trembling fingers, he comm'd Ni'sha. It was either consult her or the Force, and right now he needed more than answers, he needed a hand upon his, not a voice in his head. The latter only confused him.

"Truth be told, I never liked Kenobi," Ni'sha admitted with a shrug, leaning forward to handing Qui-Gon a cup of tea before settling back and curling her feet under her to take a sip of her own. "But not liking him does not mean I'm ready to see him as a Sith-in-training, either. He's not Xan – that boy was falling for a long time. Kenobi never even really teetered."

"It only takes one misstep to fall," Qui-Gon argued back.

"Oh, Qui-Gon." Ni'sha leaned forward and pressed both hands to his cheeks. They were warm from the cup of hot tea, warm on his skin, her thumbs warm on his lips as her mint-scented breath was warm against his neck. "Every single one of us fell by that reasoning. We fell during our trials. We were knighted because we picked ourselves back up."

Her reasoning was more than sound; it was accurate. Jedi faced many temptations, made many sacrifices. It was a hard life and it took commitment to live it. Commitment was a choice to turn away from other desires as well as a desire to heed the Force's call. That test, that choice, was the trial and when one turned away from the self and turned to the Force, that padawan became a knight.

And hadn't he – hadn't Obi-Wan – turned to the Force, to save a life? Had not the Force granted him that power in turn?

The voice inside that insisted _he_ had Fallen for once remained silent.

Ni'sha pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before again cupping his chin between her hands. "You so nearly died. Obi-Wan saved you – well," she pursed her hips and tried a grin, "the Force, working through Obi-Wan saved you. I'll always be indebted to him for that, even if I think he's a prissy, uptight, arrogant son-of-a–"

"He was never arrogant!" The protest burst out of him without thought, the words of a master feeling his apprentice was being wronged. "Headstrong, reckless, yes; tart-tongued because to be otherwise betrayed the tender heart within because –" because a tender heart was too easily bruised. So a shell of sarcasm, of dry wit became the means to conceal that which lay within.

"_Another pathetic life-form, Master?"_

Each use of the epithet earned him a stern glare, each glare purchased flushed cheeks and a half step back, a glance upwards through half closed eyes and a flash in the Force that was surprise and hurt commingled.

"_Why do I sense we have picked up another 'pathetic life form'?"_

But the apprentice had not known of what the master spoke, there in the stinging sands of Tatooine.

"_The boy who saved us." _

The reprimand had not shocked him; the revelation of the subject had.

The Jedi master groaned and felt that his head was spinning out of control. The same things that damned him suddenly seemed to, if not excuse him, at least exonerate him from malicious intent.

"_Master, please…fix it. It's dreadfully hurt."_ Obi-Wan's stricken face and the helplessness shrouding his shoulders, his outthrust hands and his pleading voice: that memory flared within his mind, unbidden.

_A pathetic life form_, the words glib and easily off the boy's tongue not long before. And not long after, the trembling in hands that cradled a broken body; the soft sheen of tears spilling from eyes that knew some injuries could not be healed, some repairs beyond man and even sometimes the Force.

Together they had set the small spirit free in a spiral of flame.

"_It was – just a – pathetic life form," a forlorn voice whispered; anguish whispered through the Force._ Qui-Gon had just - held his tongue, for once, and held, only - his boy's shoulders.

That boy – had he never existed? Or was the truth around him twisted; the boy still inside the man?

And if earlier words were to be believed as truth, had not Mace Windu said the Force had abandoned him?

Without the Force, he could not harm Anakin, could not gain entrance to his mind. Without the Force – had he been abandoned by it for the evil he had done – or would do?

What was the truth? What was reality?

He dared not ask the Force. He dared not face the truth, for whatever truth was, in the end it didn't matter. He had either lost the memory of the boy once dear, or the boy that ever was. Either way the truth would surely shatter him.

And the next time his heart was shattered, it would be lost forever though his body – the husk that housed him – would live on, brittle and hard, and oh-so-dead while the lungs inside continued to breathe and the heart continue to beat.

A thumb traced his eyes, wiping away the dampness that had collected there.

"Let it go, Qui, let it go. That time, that boy, is past," Ni'sha whispered. "You've got a wonderful new padawan. The old one is not worth your tears." Her finger tips stroked his lashes, his cheekbones - wiping away the memory that hurt. Oh, how it hurt, to remember the sheen of tears upon _his_ cheeks, _that_ time. It hurt: remembering how a tear trembled on the thumb that had swept the traces of his away; it hurt: remembering, that he had told Obi-Wan, gently, at least…

…Jedi don't cry.


	54. Ankle Whackers, Inc

I'm so far ahead on the other site, that I shake my head - lots of action and a stronger Obi-Wan coming up. The gloom and doom is turning into - action Obi!

* * *

**Chapter 54**. **Ankle Whackers, Inc**.

_Dreams pass in time_. So soft, these words, drifting through the air, a whisper, a wisp at the edge of hearing. His imagination; something heard with his heart rather than his ears? Mace narrowed his eyes, but Obi-Wan was too lost in thought to notice. He slowly surfaced from his thoughts, blinked, and ran his hands through his hair.

Trying to settle himself, Mace now knew the signs. Finding acceptance though deeds, rather than release. Even in despair, even in uncertainty, he clung to what he could of Jedi training.

"Gah!" the boy half exploded.

"Very literate," Mace observed dryly, his mouth twitching. Not the most-Jedi-like of expressions, but one he heartily endorsed. Obi-Wan stared at him then covered his mouth as if to cover a yawn. His bright eyes betrayed him, however, as did the crinkle around his mouth. That stifled grin was not going to be stifled long, if Mace Windu had any say in the matter. Being Mace Windu, he did.

"Laugh it up, fur face."

As he hoped, this mocking-insult from a smooth-domed Jedi councilor was the catalyst for a sudden, all-but-silent gust of laughter – once the young man stopped gaping, felt his chin and the stubble adorning it, and recognized the humorous sentiment behind the words.

Mace patted his knee and stood up. "I'll give you a chance to shed the chin hairs and freshen up; then I'll have breakfast on the table. Your friends will see you later; they helped bring you back so don't even think of trying to avoid them."

"No, Master." The answer was cheerful enough. After a short pause, there was another question; this one in diffident tones and one totally unexpected. "Is – will – has Siri, Padawan Tachi, returned yet – or soon?"

"Tachi?" With an effort, Mace relaxed. He hadn't realized the two were that close of friends. "She is not in the Temple, no, Obi-Wan and her return is, well, dependent on her mission." And Force knew how long that undercover assignment would last. No doubt Siri Tachi, Knight Tachi upon her safe return, would be in dire straits as Kenobi had been. Living a secret life amongst pirate and slavers was a terrible thing for a Jedi. At least Siri's master would be waiting to help her former padawan regain her equilibrium.

At least some masters retained the Force-blessed ties that bound them to their apprentices. Adi Gallia was no Qui-Gon Jinn, and thank the Force for that.

Obi-Wan's eyes wandered away before that gaze returned to meet Mace's eyes. "I see." Even words– measured words, but behind them, resignation with acceptance. "What duties shall I be expected to perform while on Seranno with Master Dooku?"

"Duties? " Mace sat back and frowned. "Your only duty is to relax and recover while our not-to-be Count finalizes his renunciation. Once you both return, in a few days time, he has expressed an interest in, ah –" well, mediating between his padawan and grand-padawan, but Mace could not exactly say that. Obi-Wan might not want mediation; he knew he wouldn't were their places switched. But what one wanted was not always what was needed, and in the end, it was the Force and its will that counted.

A muscle twitched in Obi-Wan's jaw, the only outward betrayal of the despair churning through the Force. "Confirming I am too damaged to continue to function as a Jedi?"

"No!" For a moment, just a fleeting moment, Mace was tempted to grab the padawan braid and yank it. Hard. Damn it, the man was a knight, not a – he was a man. A man who had faced a devastating betrayal, injury, and the loss of one of his senses leaving him half-blind and half-deaf. He settled for a pointing finger and his gruffest voice. "You, young man, are to lose that defeatist attitude. You will accompany Master Dooku and you will enjoy yourself.'

Obi-Wan's head shot up and his eyes widened. "I beg your pardon, Master Windu – my attitude ill-befits my upbringing and my disrespect is poor gratitude after all you've done for me these past weeks. I – please forgive me."

"I do not wish your apologies." Mace winced, that sounded harsh even to him. "That is to say, one is not needed unless you continue to be this – exasperating." Ah, that teased a small, tentative smile from the young man. He would seriously hate to be seen as an intimidating – actually he did prefer that, but still – "Blast!"

"'Exasperating' is my middle name," Obi-Wan observed quietly; a small sparkle deep within his eyes. "Or first, if you ask Bant, or only, if you ask Siri."

Both danced around the inevitable question and answer as to who bestowed that meant-to-be affectionate nickname. Like "brat," the term that once brought mirth and grins, it now brought only sadness.

"Well, the Council has a different name for you, ah, that is if the Council ever stooped to such things." Mace actually smirked; it was something Yaddle had muttered under her breath, truth be told, but he had no compunction about twisting her words around. "The 'how'd-he-do-it-boy.' Granted, it was just the one time," and the actual phrase more convoluted, "but it stuck in my mind."

Obi-Wan frankly stared. "How did I – what did I do, Master Windu?"

"Defeated a Sith. Saved a dying man. You know, the stuff even we masters of the Council would find difficult."

"Oh; but – I can't really take the credit for either. It was the Force, really."

"Stubborn lad. When a young initiate used the Force to trip a Knight just as said Knight was in the proper position to tip a food tray directly upon the head of a two foot high green gnome, it wasn't the Force that got punished, was it? No, it was the initiate."

A rather peculiar expression crossed the young Jedi's face. "That initiate…?"

"Not important," Mace cut him off. "My point is whether you used the Force or let it use you, you were the human, the Jedi part of the equation. Force knows – none of us know – just how you managed something no one can explain, but the Force did not act alone and it does not get all the accolades."

"But – "

"No 'buts' Obi-Wan."

But –" He subsided on his own. Thank the Force; apparently, The Glare still worked.

"I swear Yoda's line has a stubborn streak in it that makes each and every one of you - ," Mace heaved a sigh, "gifted, talented and utterly frustrating to the rest of us."

"Exasperating," Obi-Wan murmured under his breath, then froze.

"That, too. And annoying. Aggravating…need I go on?"

That, at least, earned him a small smile. "Now, come on, first meal is nearly ready – and by the way," he waited until Obi-Wan was on his feet, "be forewarned I _will_ step in and personally see to it that you are not allowed a cane in your doddering old age just in case ankle-whacking is also part of Yoda's bequeathal to his line."

* * *

_If ankle-whacking is Master Yoda's legacy, it should be any ankle but my own I whack_, Obi-Wan grumbled to himself only two days later, allowing himself a grimace as he rubbed the offending joint. Really, he was far too clumsy when relying on just his own five senses. And just like that, the sense of loss hit him.

Everything was muted nowadays, cast in shades of gray when once they sparkled in his inner sight.

_Oh, you're a gloomy one today_!

The self-admonishment did not do any good. He wasn't unhappy nor was he happy, but he should be content. He wasn't.

Content.

He rolled the word around on his tongue, tasted it with both his heart and mind. Content was good, content was satisfaction, content was needing nothing even if perhaps wanting something, content was the desired disposition: a Jedi should not embrace extremes of either delirious joy or despairing depression. An even disposition meant an even temper.

A Jedi.

So did that mean he was not one? And why didn't that thought itself frighten him? He didn't know how to be anything but a Jedi.

He leaned forward on his elbows and rested his chin in the palms of his hands. He was actually _thinking_ - of how he _felt_. How bizarre. He'd been _feeling _with little thought of just how he was feeling, since – since his world had crashed around him. Now his mind was questioning his feelings.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

_Or maybe my scattered wits are just circling around my head trying to fit back together_?

He sighed, wondering when and if he would ever feel _normal_ again; wondered what _normal_ even was. The insecurities that had plagued him most of his life? The anger that lessened as self-confidence grew? The acceptance, even caring, he had come to expect from the man who now no longer cared? He had found his place in life, or so he'd thought, only to lose it – the boy who had known he was meant to be a Jedi and had finally felt worthy to be called one – was now what? Who was he now; who was he to be now that what he was, was no longer?

A small head nudged his hand. _Stop thinking, start scratching_. Obi-Wan glanced down and chuckled.

"Yes, your needs are more immediate, aren't they?" he murmured.

So he gave in to the moment and the demand, merely sitting, a finger of one hand scratching the slightly battered ears of the old felinoid who seemed to have adopted him.

A low rumble of pleasure was followed by a tap of a paw against his thigh. Obligingly, he moved into a cross legged position as ten pounds of warm fur jumped lightly into his lap, turned around and around several times before settling down to gaze up at him through half-slitted eyes, all six paws kneading the fabric of his leggings.

_Mrrrph _was followed by a wide yawn.

"I'm not fond of pathetic life forms, you know," he said absently, stroking her fur. In return, his hand was butted in a gesture he had learned was a demand for chin scratches, enforced by tiny but sharp teeth if ignored. "Yes, yes, fond or not, I do obey orders well." He suited actions to words.

Obi-Wan was glad to be away from the Temple; away from sympathetic eyes and unuttered words. Away from the nickname "Sith-killer" he'd been graced with. Away from all he knew, sitting in a rose garden with blue skies above rather than the constant stream of aerial traffic that filled Coruscant's skies. At the same time, he was not entirely comfortable around Master Dooku, who had swept into the Temple and swept Obi-Wan away with him to Serreno.

Master Dooku: he who had told Qui-Gon to jettison Obi-Wan so long ago as being unworthy.

Master Dooku: he who had been rumored to have had words with his former padawan before asking Obi-Wan if he wished a change of scenery and then whisked him away almost before he could formulate a response.

Master Dooku: he who had barely spoken to him on the journey or since arrival late the night before. He was treated as an honored guest, but so far had been left to his own devices by and large.

Obi-Wan wondered why, but Qui-Gon had been drilling patience into him for years. In time the reason would become clear. So he had unpacked his few things in the lavish bedroom with its large windows and expensive hand-crafted furniture, stood for some time on the small balcony overlooking the estate grounds before the cool air herded him back inside to sit before the fire – a real wood fire in an old-fashioned real fireplace – before he had finally tumbled between the shimmersilk sheets.

Cozy and warm in a bed large enough for three, settled in luxury as he so rarely had the chance to experience, he had dreamed not of those rare occasions, but of others: hard ground and bone chilling dampness that his cloak could not cushion or entirely barricade himself from. He had been far from comfortable, physically, those few times shelter had been but a cloak and the stars, but it had been no true discomfort those times because of who he was with; the man he had admired above all others.

Mentor, teacher, and friend.

Master and Apprentice they had been, Jinn and Kenobi, together overcoming shared hardship and adversity with soft laughter and fond memories, finding in both sufficient warmth to ease the night before them.

* * *

"Are you enjoying yourself, Obi-Wan?"

The question came without warning over dinner, the first time Obi-Wan had seen Master Dooku since their arrival. Both sat at the end of a table meant for twenty or more. With just the two of them, the elegant room was chill and formal. The food before them, in contrast, was plain and hearty, the wine, very expensive and very good. Obi-Wan lifted his head and saw genuine interest on Master Dooku's face.

After a hesitant pause, he courteously said, "Yes, sir, I am."

"Good." Dooku studied him; then smiled. "I had hoped we would have moved beyond mere courtesy by now to – better terms. We are of the same line after all."

"Sir." Obi-Wan paused and folded his fingers in his lap. "You have been most kind, but I must ask – you have not taken an interest in me or my training since – since you told Master Jinn – he should give me up. Why have you now taken an interest in my feelings or well being?"

The bushy eyebrows rose in admiration. "Well spoken, my boy and quite – mistaken. I never advised Qui-Gon – ah," Dooku appeared rather perplexed at some nagging tickle. "Ah," he coughed, "yes, I believe I did advise my padawan he had best give you up – if he was not prepared to accord you the proper respect a padawan deserved. I feared the relationship between you two would be detrimental to you both if he didn't shape up."

"With due respect, sir, I'm not sure I'm prepared to accept that." Obi-Wan stared at his plate; hating that he could once again feel the slap of that long ago comment as clearly as when he had been an insecure thirteen year old padawan realizing that the home he had thought he found was just an illusion, a place and a position, but not a home, never a place where he truly belonged but only resided. He looked up then, his eyes quiet and calm upon the older man. "You never once spoke to me and you rarely visited my master after that."

"Qui-Gon and I were close, but we never had the relationship the two of you developed. I angered him when I spoke out and we more or less parted ways at that time. He did not appreciate my blunt honesty."

"Did you appreciate his feelings, Master Dooku?"

"Well, well." Dooku raised an eyebrow and sat back, studying his grand-padawan. "After several years of indulging his feelings, I no longer felt the need. For a Jedi preaching 'live in the moment' he was neglecting his moment shamefully in my estimation – he was neglecting his new padawan. He had no business accepting you if he was not prepared to accept you fully and release his past. You still bear those scars, Obi-Wan and don't tell me you don't – don't give me that line about releasing your feelings into the Force and all is behind you now – you're human. You were young. You got over it as all humans do, but you didn't get rid of it. It lives inside you and it just got all stirred up by Qui-Gon's latest foolishness, or idiocy as I see it."

"Yes, well…"

"He visited me, just before that last mission of yours. Ah, that got your interest, did it?" Dooku waggled a finger at him. "Something's going on, my boy. This Qui-Gon is not the same man who was here feeling the approaching loss of his padawan; we commiserated together about growing old. He was missing you, my boy, even before you had gone. This young prodigy may have grabbed his attention but there has to be something else going on."

"With respect, sir -"

"Think, Obi-Wan; you are reputed to be a reasonably logical man. Has my padawan ever been deliberately cruel? Have any of his fancies engaged his attention as long as this new padawan of his? No."

Stung by the implied criticism, and honest enough to admit he had not thought of anything but his own feelings, he retorted with what he had more than once voiced yet never quite accepted until now, "He will follow any path set before him by the Force – and set aside anything at its request."

"With an appalling lack of tact and common sense, no, I refuse to believe that. You must refute it as well – use your mind, not your heart."

"My mind tells me he is the Jedi we all seek to be." Obi-Wan shoved back his chair, not ready to have this conversation; _unwilling_ to have this conversation, because if he truly believed that his former master was following nothing more or less than the will of the Force – what did that say about him?

"Would you behave so?"

The question stopped him as effectively as a hand on his arm. "I am not as good a servant to the Force; no, I could not." His voice was as hollow as the realization. "Capable," had been the best commendation Qui-Gon Jinn had been able to dredge up before the Council seemingly so long ago. _Incapable_ was more like it. Who was he to doubt the Force, to stand against its wishes?

A heavy hand descended on his shoulder, taking him by surprise. "Then let me ask you this: would the Force ask you to abandon someone – anyone – in the cruelest manner possible when that very someone is pouring out his very life to save yours?"

The weight of his realization bowed his head. "The Force would never ask such a thing; it dictates what we do but not how we do it."

"Then why do you believe Qui-Gon was following the Force's will?"

Obi-Wan knuckled his eyes, feeling the warmth of tears that wished release. He would not give himself the satisfaction. "Because it hurts less that way."

Dooku stepped back and studied him, before nodding. "So you'd rather take the lesser pain than seek an explanation that might remove it all?"

That stiffened his spine and silenced his words. Was that his truth? His motivation?

Cowardice?

Then he clearly was no Jedi.

"_Bring Kenobi to me; the boy as well."_

Well, accidents did happen, BB smirked to himself. "Accidental" dismemberment in the course of capturing a trained Jedi could easily be explained. Especially since the Jedi in question had already accounted for one Sith.

As for the boss, well, he'd get his comeuppance in time. The little skirt he hungered after – well, he knew how to "invade the boss's territory," so to speak, how to leave his mark in flesh and on the soul. Let her struggle, it would only deepen his pleasure. He'd always liked the rough rides, the bumpy journeys to and from orbit to the smooth hyperspace sailing between the stars. When he was done, his hate and lust spilled in a harsh cacophony of sound and motion , "BB was here" would be carved across her no-doubt-shapely hips, her torn body a blazing signpost.

All in time, of course, but a greater lust burned within him: the lust for vengeance against one who mocked him just by living. Before the corpse could cool, perhaps even while the light faded from eyes to the empty gaze into eternity, he would spill retribution in shades of liquid yellow or even milky white over the ocher and crimson canvas of his masterpiece.

What a giggle that would be…more colorful, too, than the patchwork quilt of black and blue he'd almost created under the very noses of the Jedi. If he hadn't been interrupted, so nearly caught – but he _had_ been interrupted and nearly caught.

He had thought at first to be cheated from his revenge when Qui-Gon Jinn had nearly struck Kenobi. His fist had lashed out – and halted, as if by Kenobi's tears. Weepy-Wan, the wonder boy.

Instead, the fist had smashed into something less satisfying than Kenobi's flesh. The look of bewildered horror on the Jedi master's face, oh how that had almost made him swallow a giggle. The look on Kenobi's face – had been priceless. Truly, had the blow landed it would have been less painful, but rather than mar the flesh, it had seared the soul.

All BB had done was nearly destroy the body left behind. Jinn had already taken the rest.

Only his instinct for self preservation had made him cast his stick aside and flee when approaching footsteps threatened to entrap him. Jinn – Jinn had returned; Jinn paced outside and further sodden thumps would be overheard and investigated. BB had decided to be satisfied with which each had contrived between them, in an unwilling and unrecognized "collaboration": Kenobi's body still lived – but his mind had fled.

Yet somehow that been returned to him as well, just as another opportunity had been given to BB himself to finish the job once and for all. Revenge would be so sweet.

Quite the giggle, in fact.


	55. A New Truth Revealed

**Chapter 55. A New Truth Revealed**

Obi-Wan let out a little laugh, a half sob in the privacy of his room.

What must Master Dooku think of him now? So self-absorbed, so self-pitying, he had never once thought to think, to analyze the situation he had found himself in. It was past time for him to be shaken out of his preoccupation with himself.

Obi-Wan passed a hand over his eyes and admitted it. It was not all about him. It never had been. The Qui-Gon Jinn who had callously flung him aside – was only the Qui-Gon Jinn of his bruised ego and hurt pride. He had deluded himself and how many others as well? He knew Qui-Gon Jinn; knew the man and the Jedi he was. He was a man who stood for the Force and against anything that tried to thwart its will.

Even if that opposition was the Council, or common wisdom, or even his doubting padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn did not falter.

All else fell to the wayside. Even Obi-Wan Kenobi, if necessary.

And in his misguided humiliation, he had dragged so many with him and his deluded visions, his shamefully selfish bruised feelings.

Master Windu and Master Yoda. Now Master Dooku. And, worse of all, Anakin Skywalker. The Force itself had placed the boy in their path. Whereas he would have stepped around what he had seen as an obstacle, Qui-Gon had stopped and extended a hand to one he had known was the Force's gift to the galaxy.

The Qui-Gon Jinn who had stood up for the Force and the Force's Chosen One even as _he_ had opposed it, stood in the way of the Force.

"Force, Kenobi, you really blew it," he muttered. "No wonder the Force isn't anxious to reconnect to you. I'd blow me off, too."

"_Earned knighthood you have, Obi-Wan."_ Obi-Wan blew out a bitter half-laugh. Oh, what had possessed Masters Yoda and Windu to say such a thing? Had they known the Force had _abandoned_ him, as he had abandoned it? A panacea for his ills, a promotion he would never be able to claim? He was worthy of being busted back to initiate, not worthy of knighthood.

The dream had him up and vomiting again that night.

"_He hates you."_

_The voice was merciless, hammering at him, an endless refrain of hate, hate, hate._

"_And as he hates you, you hate him. You hate him for discarding you and the boy for taking your place. You are full of hate, anger and jealousy."_

"_No." _Obi-Wan tossed and turned in his sleep, murmuring his protests.

"_You hated the Zabrak so much you allowed anger to guide your arm. You became what you swore to defend against. You pushed the Force away and locked it away, for you know you will be burned by its light. You seek warmth, but the void within seeks ice. Ice – is found in the dark._ _Fill that void within you and be whole once more."_

"_No! I accept nothing if not the light; I'd rather be empty and apart from the Force than be filled with darkness." _The sheets twisted with his struggles to be heard.

"_Have you not accepted that you no longer belong to them?"_

_He clasped his hands over his ears, but the whispers were still trapped inside. Impotent rage bubbled within his veins, hateful words thrummed with his heart._

"_They pity you when they should fear you."_

"_I am nothing to be feared!" _He fell back to the pillow, shuddering, and still asleep.

The dream shifted.

_The Temple burned; hungry flames reached to the heavens as stone cracked. Walls crumbled inwards, to lay sprawled in ash plumes of gray. In this cacophony of destruction there was at first no sound, no sizzle and no thuds, no crackling and no rumbling. At first, then the whispers moaned and scratched at hearing. The whispers intensified. And then the whispers became voices of the damned._

_A young boy clung to his leg, eyes wide and tears streaming down his face. "Please stop it."_

"_Stop it, Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon materialized beside him, smoke and soot coating his skin and hair. _

"_Know how to stop this you do, but willing are you?" Yoda croaked from behind him._

"_Who will you save, Obi-Wan? Who do you serve? Who stops this, if not you?" Mace's deep voice was gentle, yet stern. In his eyes was such disappointment as if he knew. They all knew. He knew. The dark side was too tangled around him. _

_In the flames, he saw the reflection of his own eyes._

_Yellow._

* * *

There were occasions when Mace Windu disliked Council meetings. Now was one.

"_The Force seems less – ominous."_ A casual remark that at first barely registered in his mind, by someone, followed by a silence which in turn fed into an uneasy rustling and finally, something he lifted his head to.

A casual remark became the precursor to an uneasy awareness, to an unvoiced concern, and now – to this.

"Kenobi's left, then."

Only a soft murmur. Only the truth. So why did it sound like an accusation?

"Yes, with Master Dooku."

Another silence. If Yoda had been there, the silence surely would have been broken by a _twack_ of his stick against an ankle or two. Not even members of the Council were immune to such _corrections_. But Yoda had not yet arrived and it fell to Mace to speak up, or keep his peace.

"Correlation does not equal causation," he said sternly. Adi Gallia nodded in slow agreement as Yaddle cocked her head to one side, considering all that was being said. Depa merely blinked slowly, while Saesee Tinn and Plo Koon eyed each other.

"There _is_ a pall around Kenobi's light now."

"The Force –" Surprisingly, Mace was interrupted.

"He does not touch the Force, Master Windu."

"It touches him, Master Piell!" A slow release of breath settled Mace's breathing. He looked around and made sure he caught each eye or eyestalk in turn. "The Force does not elude his presence; it seeks him out as always, perhaps more so considering his emotional and physical state."

"Which is unprecedented, although true." Adi spoke slowly, perhaps even apologetically.

"The fact remains that Padawan Kenobi is not and never has been anywhere near powerful enough to keep a man from dying – tell me, Master Windu, I'm not sure there's one of us in the Council chamber that has that power – how did he gain access to it – and why now does the Force elude him?"

"That's Jinn speaking," Mace ground out, trying not to glare at Oppo Rancisis.

"And who knew Kenobi's strength and skill better?"

"With all due respect to Masters Yoda and Windu, I propose we reexamine both Padawan Kenobi and Master Jinn – that boy, too – to ascertain –"

"That our conclusion remains valid," Mace interrupted, holding up a hand, "and that boy has a name, Master Piell." He didn't like it, one bit, but it was his duty – the Council's duty – to examine and scrutinize - to protect. The Force told him his first conclusion was correct, that whatever darkness that may have swirled around Kenobi had been successfully defeated – but the Sith was an unknown factor. He would not presume that the Force spoke to his colleagues as to him; he would not "do a Jinn" on them.

And, he had to admit, it did feel like a heavy weight had lifted from the Temple not long after Master Dooku and Obi-Wan's departure.

_Correlation is not causation_, he reminded himself.

Except, sometimes, it was.

* * *

"You do not look well, Obi-Wan."

"Good morning, Master Dooku. I – did not sleep well." Obi-Wan slipped into his seat, hoping the older Jedi would let it slide. Dreams, and even nightmares, were not unknown to the Jedi, but they were not common, either, and often a manifestation of either bad food or an upset center. The last thing he wanted was to appear weak before his grand-master. It wasn't like he could help – the only thing that could help was the Force.

"I experienced Force-deprivation once." The man remarked, almost casually, not glancing at Obi-Wan. "It was quite unsettling and the after-effects were almost worse than the deprivation – nightmares, confusion – Master Yoda nearly confined me to the healers. That scared my center right back into me."

"Oh." Obi-Wan blinked and considered the older man with an unblinking gaze. Master Dooku, like Masters Yoda and Windu, seemed – well – untouched by so many things. Always in control, never controlled by forces outside themselves. "Might I ask, sir, the circumstances?"

With a thin smile, Master Dooku leaned back and shook his head. "Do you know, to this date I don't recall a lot of it, other than that it was a darn unpleasant experience for a Jedi. But you're a lot like me, young Kenobi, we don't like to be blown hither and yon unless by the Force itself, and our surrender to its will is never as complete as my padawan's," his voice softened, "and your former master's. I suspect that's one reason you've never been fond of flying – oh, yes, I know your reputation – and one reason I – well, I've been on the edge of slipping a time or two. Luckily, the Force has always nudged me back to the path. I almost left the Order, did you know?"

"I was not aware," Obi-Wan replied. His head was spinning; Master Dooku had always been held up as a proper Jedi, a Jedi to emulate by many in the Temple.

"For the last five years I knew I might have to make a decision whether or not to stay in the Order. At the time, I knew nothing then would persuade me to leave. Three some years later I was informed the Count was quite ill and I should prepare for his imminent death. My friend Senator Palpatine, now Chancellor, encouraged me to take up both the title and a political role when it was time, of fixing what's wrong in the Republic.

"Not quite two years later," he waved a dismissive hand, "I had the chance to assume the title, leave the strife and hardship of the Jedi life behind. I was weary and disillusioned, Obi-Wan; Palpatine was quite persuasive. He has the tongue of a politician and the persuasive abilities of a born diplomat. I was tempted, Obi-Wan, on the verge of renouncing the Order. What, I thought, tied me to the Order? Had you not saved my padawan's life, I might well have accepted that offer. My faith was already so shaken…but the Force reminded me of my ties: my padawan tied me to the Order, to the Jedi life. Through him, I have another tie to the Order as well. You."

"You stayed, because of Master Jinn?" His hand stole upwards to rub his forehead, trying to absorb this new and rather surprising piece of information.

"For him and for you, and because the Force told me to stay; it was quite adamant." Master Dooku chuckled, shaking his head. "I need to shake some sense into that thick skull of his, and," he shrewdly glanced at his young companion, "and help you through this trauma. I don't trust Mace."

That brought a disbelieving stare to his face. "Master Windu has far exceeded – he has been very supportive."

"He has? Well, that old disciplinarian has unbent…." He turned a piercing gaze on Obi-Wan. "So he's let you in on his secret, all that?" He waved his hands expressively.

"That he's not 'an ogre'?"

The thick eyebrows shot up. "You have accomplished much, young Obi-Wan. Usually Mace hides that fact until one is an old and dried up Jedi master. Impressive. Good – I've made you laugh. You need to smile more. Smiles cure more ills than almost anything."

"Or cover the depths of some ills." Oh, Force. Obi-Wan felt foolish, blurting such a thing out.

Master Dooku gazed at him, not without sympathy and then remarked as he lifted his next bite of food, "Social lies to protect another party can hardly be classified as lies; foolish perhaps, but often necessary."

This time Obi-Wan blushed slightly. Either the older man was offering him an out, or was pretending ignorance. A 'social lie' to protect oneself was still a lie. Jedi most assuredly did not conceal or lie.

"Perhaps both are unseemly for a Jedi."

"Perhaps either is sometimes necessary – for a while – for the human underneath the Jedi."

The silence between them was comfortable – comforting somehow, though it should be unsettling. In his own way, Master Dooku was as unconventional as Master Jinn.

"Don't be so concerned with being a Jedi you forget to be Obi-Wan as well. I'll let you in a dirty little secret." Obi-Wan's eyes grew wide; Dooku merely snorted and leaned forward, pointing a finger at him. "No Jedi – not even Master Yoda - lives up to the Code, because 'a Jedi' doesn't exist in a pure form. It's a calling, a lifestyle, a choice. It's what we are, but not who we are. A Jedi is not a person. A person is a Jedi."

Hadn't Master Yoda said much the same? Obi-Wan took a deep breath, no longer confident in his uncertainty and rubbed his eyes. "Well, yes…."

"Learn that, my boy, learn it well. Be willing to give up what you know as truth when another truth presents itself."

"You imply that truth is a fiction."

"Truth is a point of view, Obi-Wan, to all but the Force. Truth cannot help but be colored by our perceptions. One learns when quite young not to play with a lightsaber, yet as padawans do we not find sparring with them to be a form of play, those of us who find joy in such exercise? We learn not to touch fire, yet leap right into it as knights– Obi-Wan?"

But Obi-Wan had not been truly listening once the word "fire" had been uttered: playing with fire. He had a sickening feeling that that was exactly what he was doing.

Playing with fire was commonplace for a Jedi. For someone without the Force, well, it was a great way to get burned.

* * *

Depa Billaba was staring out the window in the antechamber when Mace emerged some time after the recently concluded Council meeting and its quite unfortunate pre-meeting contentiousness, clearly waiting to speak to him and obviously off the record and in private.

"You took it better than I expected, Master," she observed, falling into step with him. "I wanted to give you a head's up but there was no time."

"Mace," he said automatically. Depa had been a knight and a master for too many years to keep using the honorific, not that he didn't appreciate it.

"Yes, 'Master," she said, a trace of amusement in her tone before sobering. "Listen, would you come by my quarters for tea and a – discussion? On Kenobi? Master Yoda, too, of course."

This did not bode well. Mace frowned and glanced at Yoda, who merely sighed and returned his gaze, his ears drooping. Whatever Depa had to say was not a surprise to the ancient Master.

They were going to "speak of Kenobi," eh?

After what little had been said in Council session, Mace was beginning to get a good sense of just what this discussion would entail – and he wasn't liking it so far.

Not one bit.

* * *

Nearly over, nearly done.

Jedi Master Dooku tapped a finger against the magnificent Al'dara wood desk in the library. With a quick scrawl of his name and a thumbprint, he would soon relinquish all claims to his ancestral estate.

It had taken a rare alignment of circumstance to bring him here. He was the son of an off-shoot branch of the family and a son so long ago relinquished to the care of the Jedi that none of his immediate family remained. Here he would have found success through the vagaries of birth, death and the rules of inheritance whereas he was used to finding a modicum of success and recognition in those deeds he accomplished in the service of the Force.

Luck, not honor, could have placed him here; to the title ascended, not earned.

Count Dooku.

It had a ring to it, he had to admit, but the temptation paled against that offered by the Force. Let another be Count in his stead. Let that one serve Serenno; he would serve the Force.

If he understood correctly, the next in line was a cousin of some sort: his mother's sister's son who was also his father's grandfather's great-grandson. Or some such. The intricacies of nobility were not beyond a diplomat of his years of experience, but otherwise bored him. A schemer and a scoundrel on the surface, but schemers and scoundrels were part and parcel of the noble Houses. This one, at least, was reputed to be a cheerful rogue. He would no doubt drink the cellars dry in a decade, but he could not gamble the House or its fortune away.

Legal restrictions saw to that.

After a quick glance at his wrist chrono, Dooku swiveled in his seat to admire the view outside the ceiling to floor windows. Framed by heavy, thick draperies, a rustic looking terrastone terrace led to the Rose Garden. Awash in nearly every shade imaginable, this all but shaded the formal lawns beyond from view except from the upper floors. A copse of trees with a meandering brook was further yet, near the estate boundary.

Much further lay pastures and beyond that rolling hills that led to an unimpressive mountain range.

_Perhaps I should have brought Qui-Gon; so submerged within his Living Force here, no doubt all nonsense would be driven right out of his so-called mind._

Or perhaps it would ease the troubled spirit of the young man barely visible, hugging his knees as he stared into the distance.

_I should like to join him and see if I can build upon the tentative relationship he's beginning to accept. It is well I took him off Mace and Yoda's hands for a while. _

He had time, and upon the thought, Dooku rose and moved to a terrace chair where young Obi-Wan could gracefully ignore him, or not.

"Serenno is quite beautiful." The melodic voice drifted to him shortly as the young Jedi stretched, then wrapped his arms around his knees once more. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"Wind and sky sometimes heal as much as time and bacta bandages."

Obi-Wan lifted his head and pondered the comment, then tilted his head to one side. "I never heard you were a philosopher as well as a skilled swordsman and master diplomat."

"A good Jedi is a combination of many things, Obi-Wan, including the unexpected."

Obi-Wan uncurled and leaned back on his elbow, nodding, then with a sudden mischievous smile to light the so-far-solemn countenance inquired, "Well, then, have you ever heard the sound of angels' wings?"

"What?"

A sideways glance accompanied his half-embarrassed confession. "It's one of the ways I used to perceive the Force. The leaves rustling in the breeze reminds me of that sound. I think the Crèche-master had been reading some fanciful tales that stuck in my imagination." He shrugged self-consciously. "I used to say I felt rainbows and heard angels' wings when I really connected with the Force, though once I got a little older, I was less quick to voice such a description. I was – mocked, by a few…."

"Ah." Dooku nodded, then suddenly chortled and slapped his knee. "I had all but forgotten; I wonder if I should reveal my own sordid self-description of how I perceived the Force."

"Oh, do tell, Master." The tone was wheedling now.

"Cakes, Obi-Wan. I swore I smelled luscious cakes fresh from the oven, smothered in all that was forbidden."

Obi-Wan sadly shook his head and intoned, "It's never vegetables, is it?" He sounded so – deadpan serious – that Dooku quite frankly stared; then they both dissolved into – for them – a fit of unseemly laughter.

"For that blasphemy, you can sit here in the sun and meditate on vegetables while I am away."

"Does that mean -?"

"No, that does not mean you can skip eating them at last meal."

The young man shrugged and threw an "it was worth a try" grin at the older.

Pleased with the lifting of the boy's spirits, Dooku rose and went inside to change to the formal clothing that had been "strongly suggested" by the legalitor. An uneasy feeling thrummed within him, one he could not quite identify. He hesitated and looked over his shoulder, but whatever it was, it was nothing visible.

On the way he stopped by the kitchen.

"Amend the menu for last meal if you would; for dessert I would like a freshly baked cake with everything decadent on it."

"I calculate the caloric count to exceed the human recommended intake. Might I suggest fruit instead?"

"You may recommend it. My order still stands."

"Very well, sir. I shall see if I can cut calories in one of the main dishes." The droid's voice sounded faintly disapproving. "My mandate is to provide healthy and nutritious meals."

"And so the meal shall be."

"With the proper substitutions I believe that is possible."

"Then make it so."

Mumbling to itself what ingredient could be replaced with another, the droid swiveled and glided off.

Droids!

They certainly made life much easier, but really – why they were imbued with voices and annoying human characteristics Dooku would never understand.

"Oh – and throw an angel on top if you would."

"An angel? Fictitious beings with wings angels? Where shall I acquire wings, sir?"

"From an angel, of course," Dooku snapped back.


	56. The End of Count Dooku

**Chapter 56. The End of Count Dooku**

Jedi did not swear, or at least, did not admit to it.

But nobility – surely they were permitted to utter an incautious expletive or two, for only fueled by such was Dooku, temporary lord of the manor, able to don the horrible garments that now decorated his body.

Or adorned.

Or some such nonsense, but there was no doubt the outfit was hideous. And thankfully, temporary.

Now "properly attired," and hopefully "presentable" to he-who-deemed-this-necessary, Dooku descended to the library and decanted a very expensive bottle of liquor before sinking into the comfortable seat he had vacated some time before and swiveled to gaze out the windows. Young Kenobi was now out of sight, the only sight to greet him was Serenno itself.

A Jedi could and should find himself at home anywhere, but he still preferred Coruscant above all other places. It had a bustle and an edge to it he liked with the serenity of the Temple there for when quiet contemplation became tempting.

Still, the planet of his birth was quite a nice planet all in all, the living comfortable and poverty all but non-existent. The Six Houses ruled and ruled well, at least on the surface. Dooku had seen so-called "democratic" governments that ruled with little regard for the actual governed; here, the aristocracy had a tradition and a heritage of beneficence that all but excused the lack of formal consent by the governed.

He downed a swallow of the fiery liquid and smiled appreciatively as he leaned back in the seat.

Young Kenobi's white face of not so long ago again popped into his mind. What had so shaken him?

He knew it hadn't been one of his "bad feelings" for Yoda had been quite clear in his recounting of the sordid story that had brought them all to this point. He knew as well that the boy's connection to the light was wrought with static while the Force's connection to the boy was – clear, a comm transmission reaching a switched off receiver.

So, if it wasn't a bad feeling born of the Force, it was any one of several possibilities.

The boy was obviously intelligent and quite likely anything but a fool. He also was confused between the contradictions spoken by his heart and his mind. Only time would tell if his master's influence had hindered or helped the boy's internal balance. Like his grand-master, his personality ran strongly to logic, to linear patterns, but under Qui-Gon's tutelage, his heart had been guided to expression that perhaps any other master would have squashed.

Just as the boy had been molded by affection, too long delayed though it had been, into a far from a run-of-the-mill-Jedi, Qui-Gon had been tempered from a flower-gazing Jedi with no thought beyond the moment into one far more balanced.

No matter his reputation, Qui-Gon was one of the most respected Jedi within the Order, as someday young Obi-Wan would be in turn. Exemplary Jedi. His legacy.

And for just a moment, he let himself revel in his pride.

He looked at his chrono, and set his pride aside.

He had only another five moments to enjoy the fine spirits, sink into the formfitting chair and stare out the window. Thirty-five minutes before reconfirming his commitment to the Order by rejecting a commitment to a family he had no memory of.

Six great Houses of Serenno.

If only everything were a number puzzle. Find the right number, interpret it correctly, and find an answer. If only it were that easy…the Force's eddies slowed, only to resume its normal pattern when it was clear Dooku would not be pursuing that train of thought.

"Gee-Vee-Sss," such a mouthful, Dooku decided, and on a whim amended it. "Jeeves, have the speeder at the front door in two minutes. It is a one and one half cycle drive to the Seat, I have been informed; I should prefer to arrive precisely at the appointed time."

"Very well, sir." For a droid, particularly that old a protocol model, it was not too annoying. Somehow those designed to aid in diplomacy and translation were usually the most irritating, drive-its-owner-to-distraction model of droid ever invented. And the whirring of servomotors…but like all else in the House, even the droids were relatively quiet and not terribly annoying.

He downed the last few sips of his most-excellent brandy (luckily there were several bottles stashed in his personal effects) and stood, straightening his tunic and smoothing the crease of his pinstriped pants. He was, technically, the unacknowledged Count, and had been given the silkiest of suggestions by the legalitor to dress the part. No Jedi tunics for him. The sniff had been there, even if no one but a Jedi could have discerned it.

The fabric was heavy, stiff with embroidery and by his tastes, flamboyant. A deep blue in color, his House's color, they were touched with purple (how Mace would love that) and a rather putrid shade of yellow. The ruffles at his neck and wrists were – overwrought, he decided distastefully. A ceremonial knife, so old it predated vibroblades, adorned his waist where he was used to the weight of his lightsaber. It was not part of the costume and hence could not be displayed – but there were places to stash it.

A well-dressed not-quite-Count would not be seen with such a thing; a well-dressed Jedi would not even consider going out in public without it somewhere on his person.

Catching a last glimpse of himself in the looking glass in the marbled entry with its enormous chandelier (fake candles and everything) he was aghast enough to again shudder and indulge his sartorial horror. He was inordinately thrilled young Kenobi was not present to bite the inside of his cheek and swallow a well-intentioned "social lie" that just yearned and itched to be shoved aside for some unrestrained commentary. The young man had a wry sense of humor, but he was in no mood to appreciate it right now.

* * *

Shmi Skywalker straightened up, a hand rubbing her back. Long hours at Watto's counter followed by long hours at her work bench at home were taking a toll. It was worth it, though. Her Ani was free.

Her mother's heart grieved for his absence, yearned for his presence, and celebrated his life apart from her.

Watto daily grumbled and complained how he was cheated out of "his Ani" but Shmi easily tuned him out. As sometimes happened, her thoughts turned to the three who had been her Ani's salvation.

The cheerful, excitable Gungan had charmed her even as he wore on her. There was no guile and no deceit within him, much like a young child. Like Ani had been once, before slavery had claimed his spirit and tried to tame him.

The pretty young lady, Padmé, inquisitive and well bred. She had hated the thought of her Anakin racing on their behalf almost as much Shmi herself. The young lady was good with children; you could see she adored Anakin and he her. No matter how gentle, one could see she was a bit of a spitfire, a durasteel inner core draped in soft velvet. Why someone like her would accompany the other two was a puzzle, but there was no reward for finding an answer and so Shmi accepted her without further thought.

And the Jedi. Strong, powerful, exuding a powerful masculine charm that evaporated her barriers – why, her heart beat just a bit faster to think of him, to remember the feel of his hands upon her skin. She had sworn long ago not to let her heart lead her except when it came to her son, but then he had touched her and stirred it to life, a flickering flame that had needed the tenderness freely offered. She shivered, remembering his arms around her, his lips against her hair, his breath warm on her neck.

One night of tenderness after so many years without: she had not thought to question such a gift. Sometimes there was no why, just time that transcended such things.

He had touched her cheek, and she in turn, his. That was enough. It was so much more than she had had in years.

He had said nothing, not in words, anyway. Each little movement, each gaze of his eyes had betrayed his compassion. His kindness and honesty had been like a pail of water to a parched plant. In the silence of their time together, she had grown to understand just what a trusting and naïve young girl she had once been, to accept soft words and kissed palms as a substitute for gentle consideration.

She jerked out of her introspection a moment later.

"Shmi!' Watto hissed at her as he flew past her, hovering before the customer who had just entered the shop. "What can I do for you, stranger?"

"I need some parts for an evaporator."

"Sure, sure. What's'a your model, friend? Forget the woman, she's'a no help to you."

With a small shrug and "Sorry,Ma'am," in his eyes, the gruff sounding but gentle-eyed customer nodded to her as he followed Watto outside the shop.

* * *

Absently brushing a stained vibroshive against his pant leg, BB checked his chrono as he swung into a fast ground speeder. Timing was everything; the good Jedi master had always been known for his punctuality.

His grin widened. He had best be; one who had been left alive, slowly dying, was meant to linger long enough to delay the esteemed Dooku. _Everything_ this day depended on timing.

Said legalitor had been left alive enough to keep the soon arriving Jedi master focused on saving his life, rather than making a speedy return to the estate.

To Kenobi.

He giggled and cracked his knuckles. The look of sheer terror on the legalitor's face, the stench of fear and impending death in the Force, almost made up for the restraint he had forced on himself. Such lovely rivulets of blood, the outflow of lovingly carved marks and the sour odor of a human so lost in fear that bodily control had failed, leaving its own marks upon the shimmersilk suiting.

Both to console himself and with time to kill – he, of course, had to sure the perhaps fatal wound would not be too soon fatal - he had forced himself upon the gagged and bound comely assistant, stripping her of gag, bindings and in-the-way clothing, inhaling her protests and reveling in her struggles before leaving her sprawled in satiated death. Few were so fortunate to die as she died, in the throes of physical love.

None, he was sure, had been left to decorate the holy shrine of defilement.

Casting his senses around him, he found his prey ahead.

And the hunter began his stalk; the pounce gloriously yet to come.

* * *

The man without a heart now had one.

And a spare.

One made of flimsiplast, one of muscle, each as fragile as the other. Inconvenient, damnable – and no longer possible to ignore.

He still wanted to deny it; wished to deny it. Hearts were inconvenient things; they brought neither riches nor power. They brought pain and regrets. Hearts were inconveniently allied with compassion and a conscience.

Yet too often his fingers strayed to the crinkled flimsy, to the gift of an orphan boy now resident in a pocket.

A heart – a conscience – scruples, a bitter path that. He was more than that – above all that. What need had he of any of that?

Damnable scruples.

Scruples hurt. They confined and squeezed. That was why he had discarded them so many years ago.

Scruples were a fence, a barrier and an obstacle to all that was pleasurable in life – they made one question one's choices and one's actions. He had never cared to question, only to experience. To drink, to wench, to gamble, though such was anathema to those who raised him, those who tried to teach him his duty was to others, not himself.

To serve, and not even at his own whim, but at the whim of others.

He was a princeling amongst men, and so he had left the men and the women, the _servants_ behind. He had had for years now one of the finest cellars in existence, any woman beneath him he wanted, and wealth enough to gamble away an entire planet before winning the next one back.

And it meant nothing without her.

She whom he had found so long ago, when some scruples had not been set aside, some chains yet unbroken.

He had not known then that the delight and satisfaction of the seduction of one so young, so innocent, so giving would be the cruelest self-destructive act of all. She had captivated him even as he had used her for self-pleasure, and in so doing had sealed both their fates.

She had become his only weakness, his one need, and his greatest temptation. So he let her go – and tracked her down again. Abandoned her; gravitated back to her. Loved her, and then lied to her. Spoke of their tomorrows together as he bid her farewell.

But no matter how long it had been, she welcomed his return, believing his lies, believing one day they would be together.

Believing in his promises.

_I promise we will be together as soon as I can arrange it. _Nuzzling her neck, wrapping her securely within his arms once his need for her was satisfied, he could almost believe he meant it. For a few precious moments he could believe love conquered all and love was enough. Life had taught him different. Love was pain and betrayal, temporary and fleeting.

_Wait just a bit longer. Wait for me, my love, wait_.

And for years she had waited, and for years she had loved him. For years, she had believed him.

And then one day he had felt her faith in him slip, her welcome less effusive. How dare she. How _dare_ she – and so he had taken her by force, ripped her clothes and her love to shreds with bitter anger and fierce possessiveness Then, as she had softly wept into rumpled sheets, a stray scruple caused him to wipe the encounter from her mind after he had forced the bruises to fade to nothing.

He had borne those bruise ever since, in a part of himself he had thought safely locked away.

The night that he forever wished to forget became the night that never was; it had become as well a night the ancient prophecy had come to fruition. He had intruded so deeply into her being in his attempt to wipe her memory clean he had stumbled upon knowledge so long sought that he scarcely believed it. This was she; the mother to be of a yet unconceived son. Vanity and greed and the knowledge conspired to make his meddling even deeper.

When he was through, she had never known the man who loved her and for whom she waited for so many years had been there, or that he had left something behind.

The Chosen One, to ripen in her womb.

All those years he had suspected; all those years she had been barren. And his plan was born. He wrested control of the prophecy as with his body _he_ wrested Fatherhood from the Force. It was, literally, child's play for him. A little nudge here, a little nudge there, a touch of Force to ripen the egg to perfect receptiveness.

His perfect son, his perfect tool, had been born nine months later. Some three years later, the boy's training had begun.

Double those three years and the prophecy adjudged true: the son of the Force through the means of a man using the Force called the Jedi to him and in turn was taken into their care. The viper in their bosom, the means to an end and a balance caused by the eradication of Qui-Gon Jinn's soul through the devastation of his padawan's soul.

He had been supremely confident, no qualms and no hesitations, committed and conceited enough to believe he could reshape the galaxy to his liking.

He had gotten a nasty shock from Naboo; there was malevolent evil out there, with its own agenda.

A man without a heart did not care. But a child had changed that.

One who cared could fear. And the evil, he feared, was breathing too close. That evil had stirred alert at Naboo and was no doubt sliding through dark and haunted by lanes only it knew, seeking some of the same prey for its own nefarious ends. _Sith_, the Jedi murmured. _Sith_, BB had gleefully cackled as he had passed it on, seemingly so long ago. _Sith_, silent and deadly, childhood terrors come to life.

On its prowl, fangs bared, it may have - must have - stumbled upon BB.

BB, with his unwarranted rages and strange fetishes, had been teetering on the edge of mental instability for some time, he had been slowly coming to realize. He had grasped the floundering boy years ago, rescued him as he had rescued others discarded as so much garbage, and given each an opportunity to earn a place in any one of his enterprises.

BB had been a pearl amongst oysters, flawed and brilliant from the start, his anger honed to serve another.

His fingers sifted data as his mind sifted all else – and a horrible hypothesis took shape.

A BB, who not reported in a while, who had been insolent and impertinent, who had fumbled his job or perhaps merely had shaken off the constraints put on him - a BB who might have been snatched into the hands of a Sith to serve its ends! He shuddered. Cruelty and anger must surely descend then into depravity and insanity.

And a BB given full rein to indulge his simmering insanity….

…a crumpled heart fluttered in the wake of a stifled curse, the swing of a desk chair and the hasty departure of the heart's new owner.

Oh, _SITH_!

He could no longer trust BB to do only and exactly as ordered. He would not trust Anakin, or even Obi-Wan, to BB. He most certainly would not trust _her_ to BB.

Not with his fears multiplying by the moment. He had to attend to BB, for as good as BB was, he had not been good enough to hide his prying fingers from the man who had trained him. He knew now. BB had the scent and would soon have the trail: somehow he would soon know who the carefully guarded secret of his heart was; somehow know who and what both Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were to him.

And now, only now – because his heart had been returned to him - he knew as well.

If he had any chance, by Force any chance at all, with her – he had to give up this mad idea of revenge, of using Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker to get at Qui-Gon Jinn. He had chosen his path out of weakness. It was time to choose another path, one with her at his side.

It was time to abandon this idea of position, of honor, of suitability. It was he who was unworthy of her.

He could give up the other women, the occasional men – he _would_ give them up. She would be mistress of his heart, if not his household. He would not deny her recognition as mother of his children yet to come, should such come to pass. Men such as he had no compunction about displaying their offspring, only about which of them they named heirs.

He would give himself only to her, let her adorn his arm at social functions and share the fringes of his life. The one thing he could not do was give her his name. That belonged to his heir's mother, the wife he rarely saw and truthfully despised. After their son's birth, she had not welcomed him into her bed and he had no desire to warm it another time. That marriage was all but a legal sham, a means of bestowing legitimacy on his offspring and a means of acquiring baubles and prestige for the mother.

BB could have her for all he cared; she had done her duty and stayed out of the limelight. She was not unfaithful to him; she cared not at all for any of the pleasures in life or of love and had only fulfilled her wifely duties with little to no enthusiasm.

Just before he left, his eyes had fallen on that heart. A gift that had started his heart thumping once more in his chest; a gift that returned his childish days to him before he had begun to grasp for power and forgotten to hold onto the good.

He had let greed and avarice lead him astray. Even as he had been falling, she had grasped onto him, but still he had slid – no, not slid, walked away, hurried away, fled – her love. His love as well.

He shuddered. He was not an evil man, he had been persuaded. Cruel when necessary, kind when possible; an evil man could not be kind and gentle. He was a man who had done both good and bad in his life, but still, just a man.

He looked at his hands and saw what he had been blind to.

Still, he was a man with blood on his hands – and he didn't know how to wash it off, let alone if he truly wished to. Some stains sank too deep, tainted the soul beyond redemption.

But by the Force, he would not allow BB to taint others any longer. He had closed his eyes but the Force had opened them. He had trained BB and turned him loose to do his bidding. The women and men ravaged by his lust, the families torn asunder, the children – the innocent children turned into – monsters, like him and BB. He prided himself that he had a conscience but he had abdicated the responsibility to another, to BB, to keep his clean.

Who would the Force judge the harshest? The man with the most blood on his hands, or the one whose soul was stained with it instead?


	57. Confronting One's Past

**Chapter 57**. **Confronting One's Past**

It had been a long time since Obi-Wan had done, literally, nothing.

Lying on his back, one arm shading his eyes from the sun, he emptied his mind of all thoughts – no worries about the future, no worrying about the moment….

_Schwat!_

He sat up in shock – that had sounded disturbingly like – _schwat! _Something whizzed past him just as he cocked his head. Blaster bolts? Here? Who could be so careless? "Hey, watch it, there's someone here!" he roared.

And careless it seemed to be, for the warning worked.

Who would be shooting in the estate? There was nothing to poach; it was too close to the house for target shooting. No roving gang of criminals, he was pretty sure, even finding a smile for the thought, outlandish as it was. Serenno boasted a very low crime rate.

Obi-Wan stood; then bent over to brush his knees, an action that may have saved his life.

_Schwat_!

Stumbling in shock, Obi-Wan dropped and all but burrowed in the ground and slithered in what he hoped was a safe direction.

Another blaster bolt tore through a leaf not a hand span from his cheek, shredded reobi peppering him with sticky juice. Another narrowly missed his leg. One quick breath and he bounded to his feet, weaving towards the shelter of a copse of trees. Bolts missed him time and again. It wasn't luck, Obi-Wan realized, but deliberate. Whoever was shooting at him was not – at least, not yet – trying to harm him, but horrify him.

"Master Dooku," he pushed a call out into the Force, hoping the Force would reach the Jedi master. He could not feel the Force, but the Force was around him, he had been told. He had a Force presence that he was not capable of hiding; if the assailant was a Force user, he could not merely hide.

He might not even be able to escape.

It was likely he would have to fight.

His fingers fumbled for his lightsaber and found – nothing. His was at the bottom of a shaft in Naboo. All right, then, he would have to fight without it. He could do it; he had been one of the best of his age group at hand-to-hand in the Temple. But first he would have to lure the shooter in range.

"Oh, sweet Force," he murmured, knowing this was not going to be easy. Somehow, he didn't fancy being an unarmed target.

"Hold on, Kenobi, I've got your back," A voice shouted from somewhere behind and to Obi-Wan's side; with a quick swivel of his head he glimpsed a lightsaber at the ready, inactivated as yet, though not the person wielding it. Another Jedi on Serenno?

"Thank the Force," he murmured for the miracle.

A moment later, his world went dark.

* * *

Dooku's senses were prickling long before he arrived at the Seat, compounded of a vague need that scratched at his sense of imminent danger that he should go back, that young Kenobi was about to need a defender as well as a pulsating urge to hasten forward, that someone was already in need. It was an unpleasant tug and the Force itself seemed conflicted – but on one thing he and the Force agreed, what had happened was ahead and what was to happen was behind.

Yet what harm could a young Jedi get into that he could not get out of?

The boy seemed to have no predilection for tinkering with machinery; a pastime that could conceivably lead to pinched fingers or electrical shocks, but nothing worse.

Overdoing physical activity might well wear him out; his body was still recovering its strength. Lazing in the sun, "communing with nature" might redden pale skin too long indoors, uncomfortable but not debilitating.

It must be nothing more than Yoda and Mace's own unease simmering in his subconscious.

But danger clearly lay ahead – that was no unease, but a Jedi's certainty.

Still… he comm'd the estate.

"Young Master Kenobi? I believe he's in the west garden, milord, and all seems rather peaceful and quiet here."

That assurance did little to quell his simmering disquiet.

With a soft grunt of "Very well," he punched the code for the legalitor's office. No one answered, but a small office of two humans and one droid might well be otherwise occupied. By itself it was not worrisome, and yet – it tasted wrong in the Force. Realizing he was nearly to the Seat and relatively far from the estate, he cast his senses forward and suddenly stiffened, his hand reaching for his concealed lightsaber.

A miasma of horror was staining the Force like an unchecked wound. It stank of foul deeds.

"Jeeves, pull over short of our actual destination," he commanded, forgoing the ceremonial approach for one a bit more unorthodox. "Do you have the comm numbers for the local constabulary and medical response teams?" Quickly programming them into his comlink, Dooku slipped out of the speeder and took a circuitous route to his destination.

He knew as soon as he was inside he was too late, at least for one. Silence saturated the air, an unnatural silence that echoed without a sound: incongruous and gruesome, and unfortunately, unmistakable, something he knew from past experiences.

It was a silence that informed his senses that whatever and whoever had been here had come and gone. Still, he kept lightsaber in hand as he prowled the premises.

He, she, it or they had left chaos and mayhem behind. In the anteroom sprawled a partially clothed woman as if in wanton abandon. Dooku squatted and checked her pulse, confirming what his instincts already told him. She was long past mortal healing, whole now and past pain within the Force's gentle currents. Death itself had been quick. The protracted agony had come before, evident by the traces of fluid which splattered her bare thighs.

"Obscene," Dooku murmured, shaken despite his years in the field.

Leaving one's victim propped on display like a harlot in a transparisteel cage was depravity, but leaving the corpse draped on its back over a waste basket and with fingers arranged in a parody of lifting torn cloth as if to coyly invite a lover's gaze went way beyond depravity into outright obscenity.

As a man, Dooku itched to cover the body, but as a Jedi he knew to leave a crime scene undisturbed. That meant no modesty could be granted even in death, but then, a corpse no longer had need of dignity. Dignity, and its theft, belonged to the living…never to the dead.

Straightening from his quick and distasteful examination, he cautiously entered the inner office expecting to find another body, perhaps two, for he had not known when or if the Heir would appear to seal the transfer.

He found, instead, a grievously wounded man, his life force sputtering and fading. Sickly white and in shock, his breathing faint and shallow, the man had little time left. Enough time, the Force thrummed to him, enough time if he acted quickly.

Using one hand to thumb on his comlink, Dooku placed the other on the man's sweat-dampened forehead and _reached_ in with the Force. He was not a healer, but any field Jedi could provide rudimentary life support.

Would Kenobi have been able to do more?

He didn't have time to dwell on a thought that served no purpose and shoved it aside.

"_State your emergency, please."_

He'd been through this numerous times, on many planets, snapping out codes and identifiers to the droids without hesitation. Such was second nature to him and the Judicial codes were but one means of avoiding any unfortunate confrontations with first responders who might easily mistake a Jedi on scene as the cause of disturbance. As he all too well knew, at the moment he looked nothing like a Jedi, only a somewhat foppishly dressed man all too conveniently on scene.

While he was at it, he requested someone be sent to check out the estate. That took a bit of arguing; he only hoped the constabulary would promptly follow up.

Once done, he turned his full attention to the man before him. He had a chance to save this one.

The Force help Kenobi, if he was in danger. Not even a Jedi could be in two places at once.

* * *

Danger thrummed through Qui-Gon's veins, an itch, an urge to act. Elusive, like the bad feelings he used to hear about far too frequently. The last time had been above Naboo, on a Trade Federation ship.

Anakin was fine, though, if a bit on edge. He always was after his classes. It angered Qui-Gon to no end. Why the teaching masters allowed the other younglings to ostracize his padawan, to point and sneer at him was becoming more than an irritation, but a reason to demand a hearing before the Council.

They had to know. They had to be ignoring it, but even he had trouble believing the Council could be that cruel.

Bullying was not and never had been acceptable.

But it wasn't unknown, he remembered. Xanatos…his gut churned just to think of him, his bright, beautiful and forever lost padawan. A charmer who found it easy to get his way, but Xan had been known to bully others those few times his charm had failed him. He had charmed entry into gambling dens and brothels before he was even of age, charmed fellow padawans out of their clothing and under his sheets multiple times, and even charmed his master into overlooking his indiscretions as mere "youthful peccadilloes."

Peccadilloes that had produced more than one child, they had all later found out. Xan had let "unfortunate evidence" scattered across Coruscant and on a few other planets as well, as it had turned out.

None of the mothers had petitioned the Order for redress. Xan's feminine conquests had spanned the extremes more often than not: women who would never be able to know their child's father with certainty to married women or high born women, all too anxious to pass their child off as their husbands, or at least, not the son of a mere Jedi teenager allowed to warm their beds within days, sometimes less, of first meeting.

The Order had discretely made inquiries when such _indulgences_ had come to light and done what they could when they could through channels, as Qui-Gon had later learned.

To the best of Qui-Gon's knowledge, all identified as Force sensitive, and not one had been given to the Temple to raise. Xan's offspring, it seemed, like the father, were not meant for a Jedi life. Considering how the father had turned out, it was for the best.

After Xan, there had been few bullies that he had ever been aware of. Oh, there were instances of initiates getting into scraps and altercations, but nothing serious and ongoing, nothing arising to the level of bullying.

The one exception to that: his last padawan and his nemesis: Bruck and his allies Aalto and Corwyn.

All four had been banished to Agri-Corps. Four troublemakers: four hot-headed and four angry boys, unsuitable candidates to be Jedi. One had come back. The others were all dead, caught in a deadly catastrophe that left no survivors and no bodies.

Qui-Gon sighed and rubbed his forehead. What was it with his padawans and bullying?

Qui-Gon didn't know. But it needed to stop. And if the Council refused to get involved, Ni'sha would be more than willing to help. She was enchanted by Anakin's open and direct manner, charmed by his personality, and already prickling on his behalf at the various slights and insults Anakin had chosen to share with her.

* * *

"Oh…" a soft groan escaped Obi-Wan's lips.

A finger slowly ran down his cheek and rested on his lips; his eyes flew open in shock and he raised himself up on his elbows only to be held in place by this unknown Jedi's other hand on his chest. The finger on his lips was replaced by a palm, forestalling any words he might wish to utter. A stranger kneeled at his side, eyes wild and aflame with some strong emotion that seemed a mix of elation and joy, yet feral and untamed. A smirk curved the corners of his mouth, not a grin, for the apparent humor was absent from those blue eyes.

"Kenobi – are you okay?"

The voice was silky and almost caressing as it enunciated the syllables. Obi-Wan scrunched his face in confusion.

"You don't recognize me."

"Should I?" He searched the face for any clue, any hint of familiarity. The man sounded genuinely hurt.

"Why, Kenobi, we grew up together – you don't remember?"

_Actually, no_, danced in his mind.

"You took a very hard knock to the head. Do you remember – no? Good thing I came along when I did – some drunken fool was using you for target practice." A soft giggle followed the words.

"Actually, I don't, no" he said. He tilted his head to the side, wincing at the movement and gently rubbing the tender and throbbing spot. "Who are you?"

"Obi…" A slow, sad shake of the head accompanied his name.

"To my friends." His tone was uncompromising. The diminutive was something he accepted as fond affection from those with whom he was friends; from others, it was unwelcome. He wasn't yet sure how to classify this man; there _was _something familiar in his expression. It set his teeth on edge, and yet – and yet, the man was a Jedi. Robe, tunics, lightsaber…who else could he be? With thousands in the Order, he was bound not to know all of them.

"You really don't remember me, do you?" The man sat back on his heels, staring at him.

Obi-Wan wasn't sure if it was disbelief or something else in that shuttered expression. Glee? Disappointment? "No. I really don't. So who are you?"

"Your worst nightmare." It was said so simply, too, in such a – a conversational tone.

It sounded like a horrid melodrama; Obi-Wan couldn't help snickering. "Oh, please…how cliché. Try another line, why don't you?"

The Jedi raised his eyebrow. "Okay, how about you just shut up and die already?"

"Nah, it's not that funny," he complained. When the other man showed no sign of sharing his amusement, he rolled his eyes. "I'm not about to die from laughter at your oh-so-witty and original threat," he clarified. "Got anything better, or jut more clichés?"

"Funny, Kenobi, funny. Try this, then: on your knees and begging for mercy."

"Sorry, nope, that's not in the schedule, either. Now really, who are you?" Sure, there were plenty of folks who wouldn't mind doing in a Jedi, any one in general or just one in particular, but few actually were capable of actually doing so. Those foolish enough to try almost always ended up in prison.

None had ever had the guts to actually pretend to be a Jedi, but the general discomfort Obi-Wan had been feeling was flaring into true alarm. Lightsabers were just too difficult to get a hand on if one was not a Jedi.

Unless one were a former Jedi…or even worse.

"Listen, this is all very amusing," Obi-Wan tried to sound jocular, but his eyes were busy searching for an escape because he was pretty sure that was what he needed to do, though Force knew why he should be a target, "but there's someone on the loose out there with a weapon. Shouldn't we be trying to apprehend this person before someone gets really hurt?"

The palm on his chest fisted into the neckline of his tunic and hauled him into a fully upright position. "Oh, but wouldn't you rather know who I am?" Very deliberately, the unknown Jedi grasped Obi-Wan's chin in his hand and leaned close, too close for comfort. "Your killer," whispered across his lips, as soft as a breath of air. The already infinitesimal gap between them closed with just the slightest of movements on the false Jedi's part as his lips pressed against Obi-Wan's in a parody of a lover's tender kiss. The actual Jedi stiffened and tried to wrench his head aside.

"You still don't remember me, little Jedi?"

Considering the only Jedi Obi-Wan had ever kissed had been Siri – something he both cherished and felt guilty about – it was safe to say a kiss had done nothing for his memory. So he spat as two hands dug into his shoulders, for what purpose he was sure he didn't care to know. Trying to wriggle free, he instead tumbled them both to the ground. He landed flat on his back, arms pinned over his head and the heavy body straddling him in a half-crouch. The man's eyes burned with a strange passion as he threw his head back and giggled, a high-pitched sound that slowly deepened and faded into a deep growl that was far less intimidating than the giggle.

"Oh, that's right – you're damaged, brain-damaged. Like anyone would've ever noticed. You never were much of a Jedi even before this, were you? Now you're worse than useless, thrown away by Jinn, hidden away by Windu…"

In the midst of the ranting, Obi-Wan shifted his hips enough that his assailant's attention wavered and the grip on his wrists instinctively loosened. Lacing the fingers of one hand with one of the man's, he slammed their conjoined fist upwards into the face so near his own, letting the false Jedi's hand absorb the brunt of the blow. Even so, the impact shuddered up to his own shoulder.

With a roar of fury, blood flowing from his nose, the enraged man rammed an ungentle elbow into Obi-Wan's stomach and rolled into a crouch, vibroblade in hand. With startling speed he then threw himself onto the supine Jedi.

Only Obi-Wan was no longer there. With equally quick reflexes, Obi-Wan had rolled to his feet and lashed out with his leg, landing a satisfying thump into the man's backside.

With the Force, he might have been able to snatch the man's lightsaber from his belt. He could not. Nor did he wish to directly engage the man, if possible. In close quarters, the other man was larger and heavier. Obi-Wan might have the edge in agility, but even that was far from certain.

Ignoring the invective spitting from the raving man's lips, the half-crazed glaze in his eyes, the Jedi took that second or two given him to try to slow his thumping heart. A cooler head might be his only advantage.

Experience told him: watch the eyes.

With only the merest flicker of warning, the other man flew at him with a snarl. Obi-Wan dodged to the side, pirouetted and grabbed the wrist as the vibroblade whistled past his ear. He swept a leg around at the same time to knock the other man off his feet, but was in turn knocked off balance as a leg smashed into his thigh.

He grunted as the tip of the blade scored his arm; barely dancing out of the way before the blade bit deep.

He countered by feigning a more serious wound, taking a step back then another, pivoting suddenly and slamming his foot into the wrist of the blade-wielding hand. The vibroblade skittered across the soil. The Jedi scrambled after it. It was no lightsaber but it felt good in his hand, something solid and tangible.

But it was no match for a lightsaber – and it had suddenly sprung to the false Jedi's hand as the vibroblade itself slapped into his other, torn from Obi-Wan's grasp before his grip had solidified enough to resist a Force pull. Obi-Wan gulped. An unarmed "ordinary" against an armed Force-sensitive was well nigh unstoppable except by overwhelming numbers.

He didn't need to spare a glance around to know that he was alone. Very much alone.

It wasn't the first time in his life he made the decision he made then. A strategic retreat was called for; far better than to be a dead hero.

Obi-Wan turned and ran.


	58. Implementing a Defense

**Chapter 58**. **Implementing a Defense**

Jedi Master Dooku hid his mounting impatience well. The wounded legalitor had been carted off to the medical center not long before, conscious enough to witness Dooku's formal renunciation of the title.

The dead female, identified as the legalitor's business partner by the reception droid - found deactivated and undamaged in a corner - was carted off to await formal identification and whatever rites her family saw fit.

The reception droid fussed and muttered, but no one paid it any attention. Its only contribution was the few seconds scan in its memory banks of a man's entry and a woman's surprised voice: "You're not the – what are you doing to our droid?"

Then nothing.

Dooku had no wish to see the details of what transpired next, but it would have been helpful to have it recorded. The visitor, almost certainly the killer, had been male, broad-shouldered and moderately tall.

And dressed like a Jedi.

The true Jedi, he, was _not _dressed as a Jedi. That seemed to confuse the constabulary droids, hence the wait for the supervising inspector and a connection to the Jedi Temple to verify his identity. Had it been other circumstances, he was sure Yoda and Mace both would have found the situation amusing.

Like him, however, they were brief and to the point.

There were only two Jedi known to be on Serenno and one was in front of them, Mace declared. The other? Sensing the line of inquiry immediately, Mace pulled up a hologram scan of Obi-Wan from the personnel files to compare against the droid's all too brief view. Bulk could be faked, height enhanced, but certain biometrics could not.

The constabulary was satisfied. And Dooku grew more impatient.

Then the Force shoved him with an almost physical blow. _Obi-Wan_! Trouble had now found him.

And he was precisely two cycles away.

* * *

His nostrils flared at the familiar scent – musky and ancient like time itself. Old stone, the planet Coruscant itself, from a time when there had been a planet and not just a cityscape, layered with duracrete and permacrete.

The Jedi Temple.

Stolid and enduring. A Temple to solidity; its foundation planted into true soil and substrate while its spires reached into the heavens, anchored at one end and soaring at the other.

A place of echoing silence, doors that opened and closed with knobs and where steps now crumbling at the edges led up and down.

Some might call it haunted by the past, others, a refuge from the present.

To the man who stood here once more, it was all that and more.

He had been young then, wide-eyed but never innocent. A restless spirit, dissatisfied with the limitations forced on him. A young man, who had a taste for varied adventure, had explored here once. He knew its sub-levels, some dank and mossy with disuse, long forgotten, some dry and dusty, of no purpose and hence long forgotten.

He knew its old entrances, rusty or overgrown, unguarded by man or spirits.

He knew its passages, the well worn ways to forbidden pleasures – the lure of the dice and of the seduction. Hedonistic hallways, he had sardonically called them. The fever had been in his blood even then, the need to be free of all constraints, be they moral, ethical or physical.

Oh, yes, "The Boss" knew his way around the Temple, even better than BB. Even so, being here gave him the shivers.

He had called it home once. Also, hell.

He had explored its depths even as an initiate. He had made it a hidden lair as a padawan. He had once intended to make it a tomb for all the Jedi.

And now, it would be a tomb to BB, his protégé – and a threat to all that he held dear. A body could lie here for undisturbed centuries, though a violent death might shake the foundations of the Temple's vaunted sense of invulnerability. Yoda was capable of sensing such a vast disturbance, so to be entirely safe, he had a gas canister and hypospray primed to put BB to eternal sleep.

A strangely absent BB, other than in a lingering Force signature which he had not apparently tried hard to shield, here so far below; one that had strangely deteriorated into shreds and shards of apparent insanity. The holophotos littering the walls would have proved that, even to a non-Force sensitive.

All of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Dozens of them; one in particular arresting and sickening: it showed a smiling young man at the side of an elder, presumably Qui-Gon Jinn. A moment in which all had been in harmony, if one went by the un-shadowed smile and the laughing eyes. A hand resting on the young Jedi's shoulder, the rest of the figure viciously slashed into oblivion.

But that was not alone what made this holophoto so chilling.

It was the scrawls of certain madness in dripping red and razor sharp edges, so incongruous when juxtaposed against the remnants of the unsullied original, pinned by some purloined blade against a wall so as to dominate the room.

It was all the other holophotos as well, scattered around, some on the floor and showing signs of being ground to pieces by a foot. It was the pieces chopped and diced from the somewhat intact photos of men and women, banished by a blade from Kenobi's side.

It was the holophoto in position of pride, overlooking an untidy bundle of blankets, a photo of Kenobi in profile leaning forward, a smile on his face and his hands resting affectionately on the shoulder of what seemed to be a woman, based on the shapely curves of the torso. Blonde haired, whoever she was, but where her face should have been was crudely plastered that of another - that of BB himself.

_He's mine_! Venom writ in dripping crimson, letters aflame with hate and fury and the exclamation point a dagger poised to decapitate the laughing man.

And the most repulsive, so obscene he fought nausea, a bare-chested BB, his powerful muscles bunched in a display of male pride, leggings undone and his hand caught mid-stroke as he defaced yet another photo.

Inexplicable and unwanted, pity surged through the man who had set the game into motion. Black had wrenched control from the Game Master and White was targeted for annihilation. The repercussions were out of his control and had always been; oh, in his egotistic assumption that his needs, his wants, his goals should be subservient to no one – to find he was now reduced to a pawn on a greater board than his imagination and selfish desires.

He had never thought beyond the moment, beyond the punishment and his revenge. He had used innocents and the guilty, alike.

Selfish he, thinking no one else was of consequence.

Now the consequences were bitterly and blatantly staring him in the face and shivering in his gut. Consequences beyond imagining; consequences that now shook the foundations of one who in his arrogance and pride had always thought his secure: so sure that he could dictate and play and toy with others and remain immune to and entertained by the consequences.

The despised shackles of conventionality and principled morality he had so long sought to escape or evade by imposing them upon others were, he finally realized, now shackling him as well.

And in the end, all were both victim and villain.

The Boss's skin crawled as if a million sandfleas were twitching just below the surface. This – this was the man to which he had entrusted Shmi's son. This was the man who was meant to watch over Anakin.

_His_ son!

_Oh, Force – oh, dear Force._

The rage built within him as he tore the small chamber apart. Spare Jedi tunics splat on the floor, glow rods shattered against walls as he searched and finally he found more fuel to fan his inner fire by pure accident, ripping down this – this "shrine" of lust and fury – words, scribbled on the backside of various photos. They reeked of uncontrolled passion: betrayal, destruction, and obsession.

Of a mind lost to madness, to obsession.

A man who had discerned too many truths and clearly meant to snuff them out – it was all there in the rambling ravings: _strangle…carve…gut…._

This was a viper of his own creation.

Then a name, one name caught his eye.

BB had Shmi's name. He had Shmi's name! Scribbled after it – Tatooine? A crude drawing as well, depicting a despicable desire and a spreading pool of blood along with an epithet that would make even a Hutt blush. He exploded in outrage and fear.

And then the molten lava of his fury flash froze to ice. He had always known BB was a bit unstable; he had known that not long after rescuing him from Agri-Corps exile. He had hoped a steady job and further teaching in the ways of the Force had settled the angry young man down. Instead, the dirty jobs and the unrestrained liberties had finally unleashed the demon within.

He had created this monster himself, oh, with aid from the monster's own obsessions and frailties, no doubt; a monster that had lost his fragile balance and no longer tip toed on the edge of sanity. He was now fallen to both madness and darkness.

What had been the impetus? Had it been inevitable and not attributable to any one thing, one person…his eye fell once more to the mad scribbling.

"Abduct Kenobi – Serenno. No! My Sith master can't have him. He's mine. Mine!"

Delusions, boasts, threats - such braggadocio from a self-inflated man, congratulating himself on how he had been anointed the heir apparent to – oh, how ridiculous – to a Sith.

The Sith were extinct.

Or so it had been believed, but beliefs were not always truth. Many times they were nothing but wishes wrapped in convenient wrappers of surmises and incomplete understanding.

Now stark realization stared him in the face; no matter how he wished to deny it.

The bogeyman of legend lived. That presence he'd sensed on Naboo – that evil that scented and sniffed, _fed_ on the chaos of Jedi and opponent, was Sith: evil incarnate. It sought delight in torment and fear. It nurtured itself on the souls of others. It was aware and it was both purposeful and without purpose, for it would suckle on its allies as easily as on its enemies.

Self-satiation was its driving goal – and no one, no one was safe.

His blood curdled within his veins: BB fancied himself a Sith apprentice. No Sith would apprentice one such as BB, but a true Sith would not hesitate to use even such a flawed tool.

The tool had its own plan, Sith be damned.

His eyes returned to the rants and threats before him.

_YOU CAN'T FORBIDE ME KENOBI; I'LL KILL HIM! _

And Shmi – gentle Shmi, the one woman who had always had his heart – he snarled at the thought of her writhing in pain…

And The Boss knew there was those for whom he would sacrifice nearly everything, to see them safe from the Sith.

Damn his newfound heart!

A man without a heart was a man who could sacrifice those he loved because there was truly none he loved, only those he should. Such a man could sacrifice those he hated just as well.

Such a man could sacrifice everything but his own life.

But a man with a heart – could not do so, not without sacrificing that very life he wished to protect.

And there was more, not easily hidden to a man such as him.

BB had gloated over his destruction of the healer, Jorak, hacking into the Order's own computer to send a virus to send the healer and his ship to a fiery death. The Jedi would never now connect him to Anakin or to Qui-Gon, or even to the Order itself. But BB had acted on instinct and somehow made that connection.

It was there – the surmises, the conjectures, the conclusions.

He had to act fast. If BB knew of Anakin's parentage and was on the track – he squeezed his eyes shut when he found the final piece and wiped it from the datapad – the genetic records that connected him to Anakin, and would as well connect him to the Temple.

There would be no mercy for him when the Jedi knew – if they knew. Qui-Gon Jinn and he would face off – and the Jedi would show him no mercy for destroying the man he had once regarded almost as a son.

By the greater threat was to Shmi. It stared him in the face. Tatooine. BB would find her, oh, yes, he would find her.

And what was worse, he would not just kill her. He would torment her and use her.

That could not be allowed to happen.

No matter what he might have to do to prevent that.

* * *

"You heard them, Masters," Depa said, settling back comfortably, legs tucked underneath her. "They only voiced what many have noticed – the Temple has been –" she hesitated.

Mace pinched his nose and nodded sourly. "The fog in the Force has dissipated a bit."

"To Obi-Wan's absence this has been attributed, mmm."

The three Jedi stared at each other. Correlation is not causation, Mace reminded himself. No Jedi could truly know another, but the boy had been living with him for weeks now. He had seen his ups and downs, had been privy to his fears and insecurities, and had shared his moments of joy and happiness.

There was strength and layers of depth to Obi-Wan, but not hidden depths of deceit. He knew that, as surely as he knew the Force existed.

Yoda knew as well. The ancient master knew far more than he was letting on: he was not surprised at the revelation; rather almost expectant. He seemed saddened as well as almost – apprehensive. Of Obi-Wan? No… no, not that wasn't quite right. Worried? Did he fear – and fear was something Mace would have never associated with Yoda - not Obi-Wan himself, but _for_ him? What had the Force shared with him? Yoda's ears lifted at the scrutiny, but he remained silent.

Unaware of the troubling undercurrents of thought roiling deep within her former master, Depa nodded. "Master Jinn's earlier accusation against Obi-Wan's integrity is now public knowledge and privately debated. Some of the – points of contention are – persuasive."

Mace winced, Yoda muttered under his breath. "How?"

"That's just it, this rumor doesn't seem traceable. I've had discreet inquiries made and Qui-Gon has not openly shared his 'concerns' with others, other than one or two close friends. One might surmise that it has been observed how suspiciously he has looked at Obi-Wan and how protective he is of young Anakin. I've even had Chancellor Palpatine ask me if Obi-Wan is in 'protective custody' or under investigation for misconduct."

"Dear Force," Mace groaned.

And though the grim pall had indeed lifted, it was only from the Temple, for it had found a new home - in Mace's heart.

* * *

_Thwang_! The thin branch eluded his raised hand to whip into his face.

"Blast it!" Half a pant, half a grunt and barely audible, the curse slipped out as Obi-Wan ignored the sharp sting above his eye, just as he had been ignoring the sweat trickling down his face or sliding under his collar. The physical discomfort meant little in and of itself but what it signified was of greater concern.

He was out of shape – and running for his life.

Only one half or more cycle of running, dodging and circling around and he was already winded and without a clue as to where safety lay.

_I have a very bad feeling about this_, his mind muttered.

_You think_ he snapped back to himself, only bothering to glance at the minor vibroblade slash across his arm to verify the thin trickle of blood that had initially dampened his sleeve was still clotted and not marking his passage. The pain was negligible. He'd done worse dodging branches on some romp through the woods at his master's side. Trees could be vicious things, thin little growths whipping at one without warning. Bushes he could bulldoze through, but fighting through armed whips that had it in for one was never fun.

Not that facing a lunatic, unarmed, was not in itself a form of madness, although a form of madness he was now all but certain he would have to soon engage in. And trying to outsmart a lunatic while sane oneself was a tricky proposition indeed.

He wiped the back of his hand across his lips; they felt bruised and swollen from the unwanted assault upon them. The kiss had been an attempt to dominate him and unsettle him, he well knew, to humiliate and horrify him into easy submission to a lethal blow. Now that it was over, in the past, something that should be dismissed from memory like any other unwanted physical assault, it refused to entirely dissipate, even though largely set aside in consideration of something far more valuable - survival.

It wasn't even an assault that would leave a wound – no bacta patch needed, no healing required.

It wasn't a kiss such as the one that had so nearly led he and Siri astray, all but poised to consummate their love until they had realized that it _was_ love, far deeper than affection and far more disastrous that had led them to the brink of a chasm that only grew wider when it had so nearly been bridged; no, there had been no tenderness, no affection, no prelude to an intimacy a Jedi should never know – _oh, Force, oh, Force, oh, Force_.

Obi-Wan's stomach coiled and twisted in revulsion; he stumbled, fell to all fours and retched. Lost in his concentration, focused on escape, he only now remembered what he had subconsciously noticed when the two men had tumbled to the ground….

_Assault is assault is assault – all is vile, all is bad, all is survivable, c'mon, Kenobi – focus on the here and now – who cares what he might have done, figure out a way to stay alive._

He sat up and wiped his mouth clean. _He can track you. Think. You have to think smart so think._

But taking too much time to analyze the situation was a good way to end up dead; too little, the same.

While perhaps not the wisest course of action, making a run for it had seemed the sensible thing to do. So far he had eluded capture, but the other was Force-sensitive, though not a Jedi. A new Sith apprentice, perhaps, hurriedly recruited and not fully trained? An assassin sent to avenge the death of another? Immaterial questions, at the moment. He just knew he had to move, come up with a plan while his attacker was angry, hopefully too angry to draw on the Force to plant Obi-Wan's feet to the ground or paralyze him into inaction when next they met.

Discretion and a quick exit were sometimes preferable to bravery and defeat, but true escape might be impossible and confrontation all but inevitable.

He absently raked a nail down his arm, frowning. For such a minor scratch, the thing suddenly stung like a swarm of insects had congregated on one spot to feed on his blood. Surely the assassin wasn't playing dirty by using a poisoned blade, was he?

Was there even such a thing as playing dirty in a game of life or death? Dirty: now there was an idea.

The thought spurred him to his feet, a half formulated plan taking shape. He made a beeline for the mansion, and then doubled back past the gardens. With luck, his attacker would waste time searching the rooms. Luckily there were only droids within. He could arm himself with some garden implement, surely, though ideally he'd like to meet Force with Force.

Trickery and deceit, it seemed, would have to take its place.

His lungs were soon burning, his legs heavy. The exertion was taking a toll on a weakened body not yet returned to full strength. Spots danced in front of his eyes and his panting rivaled the thud of his feet against the ground.

Finally, he was at the implement shed. Like an exhausted wraith he stumbled inside, fingers fumbling for something, anything, to defend himself with. "Too heavy," he rejected an unwieldy tool, "too light," another.

A pruning shear was tucked in his waistband; random bags of feed and fertilizer were tucked hither and yon. A pad, two, stuffed in his shirt…he paused, ears cocked. There - a faint rustle, a hint of a breath, a whistle of sound – and he whirled, jabbing outwards with a small flanged fork and caught the fake Jedi across his upraised arm. The prongs were not sharp enough to penetrate deeply, but the man cried out in pain anyway, dropping the vibroblade from numbed fingers. Obi-Wan was quick to scoop it up and slash, but even wounded, the assassin nimbly dodged and reached for his lightsaber.

It was too bad - for him - that he wasn't paying attention to anything but Obi-Wan, his eyes crazed with hate and his lips curved in a satisfied smirk as he anticipated a quick victory. A thoughtfully and deliberately placed second flanged fork shot upwards as soon as the assailant's foot landed on the upwardly curving prongs - in blatant defiance of all safety protocols - with a most satisfactory _whoosh_ and _thump_.

It was too bad - for Obi-Wan – that one sore and hopefully broken nose and one impaled foot later only resulted in a shout of pure fury that gave impetus and strength to a lopsided lurch forward. Two incredibly strong hands closed like a vise around Obi-Wan's neck and squeezed so hard that the young Jedi could barely comprehend the infuriated ravings over his mind's demands to _breathe, just breathe. _

Unable to even wheeze, Obi-Wan jabbed upwards with the vibroblade and buried it to the hilt in spongy flesh. Warm blood spurted over his hand and stained his forearm.

He had no time to savor the sweet air filling his lungs or blink clear the black spots before his eyes.

No time to recoil from an instinctive revulsion at his mix of relief and horror at that very relief: necessary or not, to save one life – his - by possibly taking another's.

No time at all to prepare to meet the Force far sooner than he'd ever expected.

For in that same moment a lightsaber hilt had rammed against his gut and his eyes had tracked down. A finger rested on the power switch.

_Oh, not good…not good at all_. Obi-Wan looked up, swallowing hard as the stranger giggled.

"Say bye, bye."

And the finger pressed the switch.


	59. ObiWan's Sithly Decision

**Chapter 59**. **Obi-Wan's Sithly Decision**

A red blade and an inchoate scream of rage erupted into empty air where once Obi-Wan had stood.

But no longer.

"Goo…d, goo..d," crooned Sidious from afar, orgasmic shudders of delectable delight tingling along his nerves at seeing through the Force his "new apprentice" and his desired apprentice locked in mortal combat. What more could a Sith lord desire? His tongue still tasted the foul currents of the Force though that moment had passed, that moment when one flick of a finger had separated life from death – when _his_ chosen one, Kenobi, had defeated that death.

It had been a most untenable position; few could have survived a lightsaber jammed into one's ribs – but Sidious's confidence had not been misplaced; the Force's revelations true.

Glorious destruction had sprung forth and pierced a Jedi's armor if not a man's body: in the crucible of chaotic reaction a Jedi was dying, soon to be reborn a Sith. Soon – soon Kenobi would come to him and kneel at his feet to offer the tattered remnants of his soul. Then, Sidious would flay whatever tarnished gleams lingered until this servant of the light became a master of the dark.

It was young Kenobi's destiny, written in the inky emptiness between the stars where souls were shredded to bits and their light vanquished – a most apt comparison, for what was a Sith but a life with a black hole for a heart, feeding on decay– for life, no matter how strong, just like the stars in the heavens, was in eternal decomposition from the very moment of inception.

Light was Life and neither was everlasting. Dark and Death alone were eternal.

With almost childish delight, Sidious inhaled the putrefying stench so deliciously polluting the currents of the Force. A marvelous morsel to whet his appetite, this charade of – contention - he had engineered. Kenobi theoretically had no chance; a betting man would have placed his life on the outcome – and had, for the would-be-Sith had forfeited his life the moment he had decided to confront the Jedi, if not at Kenobi's hands, then at the true Sith's hands.

So he drenched himself in the sweat, passion and fury roiling around two young men battling for their place in the shadows – one knowingly, one not. One, a sacrifice to the devouring dark, yet believing himself favored in his lust for retribution and revenge; one, favored by the Force, yet thinking himself forsaken by it.

Would Kenobi sacrifice himself if he knew the price of winning? The light held him tightly enough yet though the coils of darkness already surrounded him.

Jinn had done this, tainted this paragon of virtue and slit the shell of compliant servitude; darkness now spilt across the threshold and crept ever inward, finding inroads in shattered cracks of self-esteem; when Kenobi reclaimed the Force he would command what he once had deferred to. With finesse and delicacy, Kenobi would devastate the light once his allegiance was twisted, unlike this sham and a shame, this other "apprentice," who was little more than a mere tool, even more so than Maul, a battering ram of fury incarnate whose sole task was to create a worthy successor to Sidious himself.

For the first time since Maul's death, Sidious was confident he had not misread the Force, no matter how improbable its revelations had been.

Kenobi _would_ be his.

* * *

"_Watch out, Padawan!"_

Qui-Gon rarely panicked. It seemed entirely appropriate to do so when his padawan was one finger twitch away from rejoining the Force prematurely.

Just as the celebratory breath of released tension was equally appropriate one breath later.

Knowing that the lecture to come regarding the idiotic folly of nearly scaring his master into a rash promise to the Force that he would do almost anything to have it keep the young man _alive and safe _– even, perhaps, accepting the Council's judgment without argument at least every other time he wished to challenge its collective wits – would blister the young man's hide worse than the lightsaber would have done…the Jedi master stilled, his nightmare forgotten.

He slumbered on.

* * *

The blade had sizzled entirely far too close for comfort.

No sigh of relief whistled past Obi-Wan's lips, no self-congratulatory pat on the back and no admiring mental compliment on a perfectly timed and executed gamble. Calculated and risky, it had been a desperate move with no guarantee of success but when a lightsaber was pressed to one's stomach, desperation trumped deliberation.

A wrench and twist of his torso in a chrono pirouette; a pivot on his left foot a mere fraction of a second before the blade had ignited had saved him, though the blade had scorched past his ribs so closely that even now he could feel the lingering hint of heat. So narrow was his escape that the slightest hesitation or miscalculation on his part would certainly have disabled or killed him right then or there.

That was assuming there was any thought in his actions, rather than instinctive reaction.

Still, through countless drills of the most improbable situations, the diligent practice of muscle response, and hours learnt to translate mental visualization into action, the young Jedi had known that the lightsaber's center of gravity had inadvertently been allowed to shift to its emitter end, a natural result of being jammed against Obi-Wan's stomach. To shift one, you shifted the other. The result: a sudden, involuntary, and quite infinitesimal dip of the business end of the weapon.

And as Obi-Wan knew, every action has an opposite and opposing reaction.

In this instance and nearly simultaneously, Obi-Wan's attacker flinched backwards with a growled scream of annoyance and thwarted frustration. That instinctive counter-reflex to compensate left the lightsaber angled higher, out of play not for long, but long enough.

It was a perfect opening.

Before the now ignited lightsaber could descend and start its swing sideways to cleave him in two, Obi-Wan's hands clamped onto the saber wielding arm, above the elbow and at the wrist, and forced the humming lightsaber back and across his assailant's body. In order to avoid being burned by his own weapon, the other man had to deactivate the blade, drop the vibroblade in his other hand, and stumble two quick steps back before recovering enough to sweep his right leg out to kick Obi-Wan off balance.

By quickly shifting his weight to his left leg, Obi-Wan was able to absorb the kick and although he was not able to fully deflect it, he was able to retain his grip as the false Jedi sought to break his hold through sheer strength and verbal distraction.

So absorbed was his opponent, that the Jedi was able to full advantage of his opportunity.

He brought his free right foot down hard on the other man's toes while shifting his left hand to clamp over the saber-holding wrist; his thumb stabbing at the deactivation switch while his right hand feinted an uppercut to the face – a diversionary blow he had no immediate intention of landing.

It was a blow he couldn't have landed anyway, but it didn't matter. Obi-Wan had accomplished his goal: the distraction had also allowed his fingers to find and press upon the wrist nerves, allowing the lightsaber to fall from a suddenly numb hand.

And slap right into his waiting right palm.

Before he could close his palm around it, the other man lowered his head and charged, as implacable and as indestructible as a gundark, sending both he and the weapon flying helplessly through the air. The head butt to his midsection sent the Jedi catapulting against the wall, head first. Obi-Wan slid to the ground, dazed, blinking furiously to clear the spots from his eyes.

His ears were working slightly better.

Expecting the pain of his death to wash over him in his vulnerable state, he was confused at the verbal babble that washed over his ears: snarls, grunts, and the outraged hiss of an affronted feline woken from a cozy nap when the lightsaber thumped against its crate.

Some of the snarls were human.

Blistering invectives and foul epithets torched through the air, words Obi-Wan tried to dismiss once his mind began to decipher the sounds and discern their meaning. Words were not a weapon to fear, not a weapon to battle – not even these derisive and belittling words meant to diminish.

This was a fight for survival, not for bruised feelings.

Still, a part of his mind registered and wondered at some of the words, the raving that Obi-Wan's "interference" stood between "him and glory," that death was necessary to keep him from again stealing his "rightful place" and other incomprehensible threats and slurs.

The false Jedi clearly labored under a false assumption.

For Obi-Wan knew, should he perish here today, it would be as a victim of mistaken identity and not the advancement of one man's dream of power. In truth he was little more than the weakest of Jedi, not some supposed impediment to another man's path to power, not some powerful man in his own right – no, such was merely a wild exaggeration of a fanciful notion in an insane man's mind.

But dead was dead, intended victim or not, if he let the words disrupt his now-regained focus.

Much as he had done in Theed, at the mercy of a Sith assassin, he disregarded the adrenaline and emotion coursing through his body and his mind, heard not the thumping of his heart or felt the muscle impulse to action.

Instead, he readied himself for the inevitable explosion of motion to come – aware of tensed muscles, both his and the other man's, aware of the lightsaber that had dropped in the flurry of movement, aware that the last few moments had not assured success but only temporarily postponed defeat.

By sheer force of will alone, calm eyes met infuriated ones.

Physically, he was at a disadvantage, but Obi-Wan knew his vibroblade strike earlier had wounded his would-be killer. Remembering the spurt of warm blood, the damp squelch of sundered flesh, he was reasonably certain he had inflicted more than a glancing blow but a disabling blow, a killing blow, it seemed it had not. Regrets, no, he had none, not under the circumstances, but regret he had, for the circumstances.

Regrets that he might well survive only by making sure another didn't. Just like on…Naboo.

And just like that he was there once more, staring into half-crazed eyes, yellow then, not icy blue like those now before him.

_Eyes widening in realization of impending death, a mouth cursing before puckering into an "o" of realization, a body split in two tumbling with just a spurt of vaporized blood - a tattooed horror who had tempted him to unthinking rage_… Obi-Wan blinked the sweat of remembrance from his eyes as the "no's" and curses of frustration, past and present, melded and swirled in his ears.

The "no" torn from his throat as Qui-Gon fell…the tremble in his limbs and the disbelief in his heart as he skidded to his mentor's side subsumed by the knowledge he could – he _would_ – save the man he held above all others – and the words, miraculous in their source and devastating in their meaning - _"Why…do you live, not Anakin?"_

The_ "no" _of his denial…his master, Qui-Gon, would never say such a thing, to him or to anyone.

And the staccato scream "no" of _this_ moment, torn from the throat of a thwarted assassin, a "no" he belated recognized as a "now."

"Now – I will have my revenge!"

An aggravated growl, that "now," a crescendo of fury and frustration that culminated in a ferocious scream: "You pestilent pest will die, alone and unmourned, your rotting flesh shunned even by insects. Even a Sarlaac would vomit your half-digested carcass to spare itself a bellyache just as Jinn booted your ass out of orbit into a trajectory to nowhere. You pathetic, worthless _failure _– today will be the happiest day of my life because today is the day you depart it!"

"Only for Coruscant," Obi-Wan _tsked-tsked_, the retort arising from the small part of his mind that was pure irreverence, regardless of the situation.

"_Your humor can be as dark as a Sith's alleged heart, padawan mine."_

A long ago comment, that, accompanied by a chuckle and tug on the braid. He resolutely pushed the memory away, not needing the distraction. Qui-Gon had no place at his side or in his mind, not any longer.

He now stood alone: Qui-Gon had made that decision for them both.

Icy disdain spread over his attacker's face; Obi-Wan's quip all but dousing his incandescent fury. Obi-Wan quelled a soft sigh; a man outraged was a man who would defeat himself. Now he was going to have to do it the hard way.

_I really wish that whoever it was that told me my humor is disarming was right._

"Coruscant? Your body, perhaps, perhaps to a dung pit; your soul departs to oblivion once I separate you from it," the false Jedi sneered, seemingly forgetting his earlier vow about disposing of Obi-Wan's body. "You are dirt beneath my heel, an insect to be ground to dust, a sacrifice to my place because despite all the darkness within you, there is not enough in you, _'Obi,'_ to steal my place yet again."

_Obi?_ Only childhood friends called him, "Obi." This man was no one he recognized, yet the sneer, the accusations, stirred distant memories. As to the constant references to "his darkness" – had his brief brush with the dark on Naboo so tainted him that every Force-sensitive felt it?

Was he dark?

Not perhaps as much as this man seeking to end his life, but dark enough that he might be better off to die half in light, half in shadow rather than entirely in shadow at some future time?

Before doubt could cripple him, there came from memory a reminder that he did _not_ stand entirely alone, that he had touched the dark only to renounce it…a blessed voice, tender yet firm, chastising and proud, one that never had and never would lie to him: "_Faced and defeated the dark you have, young one. Shame in that there is not, only strength: a pure soul recoils from what some might find enticing. Knighthood you have earned_."

Yoda saw his darkness and yet believed in his light!

Thus buoyed, Obi-Wan threw himself into a forward roll and came to his feet with the lightsaber in his hand just as his assailant snatched it up as well.

Face to face, once again, the two wrestled for sole possession of the weapon.

"Pathetic little Jedi," his adversary hissed between clenched teeth. "Yoda's pet padawan can't even defeat a man thrown out of the Jedi as a mere boy – but then there are other paths to power."

A grim smile accompanied Obi-Wan's retort. "And many paths to defeat."

"And yours shall be on your knees, usurper." The taunt slipped to a smirk, the once encompassing rage tempered to amusement now, sly and delighted, and punctuated by a giggle.

"C'mon now, kneel before me. Console yourself with the delusion you're losing your braid while in truth you'll be losing your head."

"I think not!"

Using the lightsaber as a fulcrum to catapult himself over the assassin's head like a gymnast over a high bar, Obi-Wan twisted in mid air to smash the other man flat by using his knees as a battering ram. It almost worked. It would have worked against someone not Force-sensitive, or if Obi-Wan had had the Force to bolster his flagging strength.

But the Force was a powerful ally, and not just to those in the light.

So the Jedi crashed to the ground, splashing a damp mixture of feed, manure and spilled feed with an "oomph" of escaping breath as his target dodged aside. A grin split the false Jedi's face as he tapped the lightsaber against his hip, obviously enjoying the sight of Obi-Wan flat on his stomach, dirty hands outstretched.

"Oh, Kenobi, how unfortunate. How humiliating." Tap, tap. "You prostrate yourself when I merely asked you to kneel before me." He laughed, a twittering laugh that was oh-so-close to a giggle.

"I'm an overachiever, what can I say?" Obi-Wan grunted, tensing as heat from the lightsaber tickled at the back of his neck.

"Don't get smart with me," a mocking voice chided as the lightsaber withdrew. The voice turned playful. "Not unless you're in a hurry to end this game."

"Oh, I'm not, er, on a schedule." He propped himself onto his elbows; when there was no reaction, he slowly pushed into a seated position with his hands low in his lap and his eyes wary. This – sudden change in demeanor – was baffling, definitely baffling. An assassin should – assassinate his prey – not play with it.

The lightsaber again spun towards him; shied back, like a shy animal not ready to accept a human hand. Obi-Wan kept his face impassive and his hands at his side.

"You don't want to play spin the lightsaber, Kenobi? My turn again, it seems." He again tapped the lightsaber against his hip before once more spinning it towards Obi-Wan, where it slowly rotated, just tantalizingly out of reach. "You never were into games, were you?"

"Nothing is a game where the stakes are life or death."

"Spoken like a self-righteous _Jedi_." The words were spat like a curse. The voice sharpened. "Did you know others gave their lives so that you might as well? You were clueless to their pain while I feasted on it; their blood is on your soul, you know. Some Guardian of Justice you are, Kenobi, why is that?" He pretended to think, then grinned wolfishly, "Oh, yes. You don't have the Force, do you?"

The false Jedi once again and oh so casually threw the lightsaber towards Obi-Wan and let it dangle for several heartbeats, almost within reach, before calling it back to his hand, the once nearly raving lunatic unnervingly ice and disdainful. "Oh, no, you lost it right – or did your precious light side snatch it back from your unworthy hands? You want it back, beg the dark side you recently and oh-so-gloriously indulged in to aid you – the light side has forsaken you, you know. Just like your master did – he knew, didn't he? Only the power of the dark can defeat death, but you refuse to embrace it."

A corner of Obi-Wan's mouth quirked upwards despite the precariousness of his position. "I prefer other embraces to that of the dark – and always shall."

"What other embraces, you self deluded liar? Phantom women – because we both know no woman would want an ineffectual Jedi boy squirming around on top of her while he's trying to figure out what goes where." A deliberately calculating sneer crossed his features. "Or did the padawan who once worshiped at his master's feet also kneel before him? Maybe you yearn for what you once had and lost when Qui-Gon found himself a new boy to warm your spot?"

Obi-Wan nearly snorted at the absurd accusation. The only embrace of _that_ sort he'd almost known had been with Siri – the intimate embrace averted only at the last moment, thwarted by three little words.

The verbal jab not eliciting even a twitch of an eye, the assassin reverted back to earlier insinuations and accusations, these laced with threads of truth and perverted by falsities.

"You were always just a stop gap, you know that: weak and unwanted? Only theatrics and gratitude extorted under false pretenses allowed you to steal my rightful place." A Force push slammed Obi-Wan flat as the man stalked towards him. "Your own ineptitude has led us here: you to whimper and crawl from the power you fear to touch and me – to end your puny existence. You're too much of a coward to reach for your own survival."

The false Jedi made a pretense of sniffing. "You reek of fear."

"I call it 'unfortunate animal byproducts'," Obi-Wan corrected mildly, not bothering to glance down at the splotches staining his Jedi tunics.

"Fear!" The assassin bellowed. "You fear death. Fear is what drove you to save the master who renounced you. Fear you would be sent away now when there was no one to shield you. Fear is why you now sweat before me. You stink of fear. You fear the Force won't accept you in the death you fear to face."

There was some truth in the last. Without the Force, would he be forever denied rest within its embrace? With a mental shrug, he let that apprehension go. Perhaps he might find out, perhaps not, but to live, he had to _live_ in the moment.

Which was an interesting exercise in itself: adapting his strategy at any given moment to face, in turn, an amused and playful man, or as now, a nearly incoherent madman.

"Lick my boots, brat…c'mon, on your knees. You don't get to die on your feet, you hear; I want you to hear your blood sizzling in your veins as my blade boils your skin and muscle." A yank of the Force brought Obi-Wan semi-upright; a Force assisted shove threw him to his knees. "But first I'll give you one last chance – reach within for the power to kill me – or die damned by your own conscience."

* * *

The Force twisted and buckled in chaotic disruption. Sidious inhaled deeply, eyes aflame and tongue flicking, searching for and savoring each molecule of this sensory feast.

Was now the moment foreseen, or did the Force tantalize him with a delay of the inevitable? He _had_ seen Kenobi at his side, facing his old master Jinn. Was the boy's old nemesis the key to Kenobi's turning, or would it be Jinn in the future? One way or the other, the Force conspired to make Kenobi a Sith, a glorious Sith – less brutal than Maul but so much more intelligent, so very much more worthy of the title Sith Lord and, perhaps in time, Sith Master.

Granted, the Skywalker brat would be much more powerful, in time, but like Maul, like this "old friend" facing Kenobi, he was merely cunning and devious, twisted and angry; he lacked the subtlety to reign supreme. Maturity might mold the boy to a worthy Sith, or it might not.

Anger alone, hate alone, was not enough. Anger and hate created useful tools, men too blind to see how they were manipulated to another's bidding.

"Your moment of glory is at hand, my unknowing apprentice," he whispered. "Be a pawn to neither man nor the Force. Be master of both, not its instruments. Unchain your hatred and unleash your resentment of all those who mistreat you; let the darkness empower you. Destroy he who seeks to destroy you, my apprentice, this one whom you once knew – as Bruck Chun."


	60. Dirty Work

**Chapter 60**. **Dirty Work**

_Force give me strength_.

Obi-Wan sent a silent plea to that ancient power to which he was self-pledged: strength to win or strength to die, either one, whatever its will - but strength to do its will as a Jedi, honorably and in the light. Strength to resist the siren call of what he feared was darkness, imploring him to willingly plunge with heart and soul into its bottomless depths – a promise of victory but at a cost he was not willing to pay.

Never again the darkness.

"Oof!" The breath whistled past his teeth as a heavy foot slammed into his side. If it took his death to resist the dark, he would allow death to claim him, but did it have to hurt so much?

But the Force did not respond to his plea: it did not invigorate him, it did not surge through his cells with revitalizing power nor did it cushion the blows. It was over, or soon to be. He had put up a good fight but he just didn't have much left within him; without the Force he had tired rapidly, its endless source of energy denied him.

_I am ready to accept what you will give, but I will not command you_. He would not seek its buoyant power if the sole purpose was to gain it only to gain dominion over another.

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth as the heavy foot this time twisted and grounded into his back: it would bruise, but a bruise was preferable to a perforation by blade. Bruises were impermanent; idly he wondered if they would still shadow his body when he was on his funeral pyre, these marks of ignominy, of failure.

_You fool; fight. _He didn't want to die.

_Nor fall to darkness_.

His fingers opened and closed spasmodically; his instinct for survival fighting his soul's desire to remain untainted whatever the cost, his mind prodding at him and his mind retorting. Dimly, discouraged and in despair, he wondered if he could even Fall; the Force could not so easily be twisted to evil when it did not even flow through him.

_What harm, then, in resistance?_

While that did not give him much needed physical strength, it fueled his determination not to give in, not to give up. Not yet, not ever. As long as there was breath left within him, he would fight back. Die if he must, but die fighting until the end.

"If I die, I will die at your hand, but damned by no one," Obi-Wan grunted; gathering what little strength he possessed for one – possibly last – move. Strength was not in his body, but strength was within him – the strength of Hope. His eyes slid sideways, seeking – anything. Sagging shelves with what appeared to be heavy containers, ancient relics from a time gone by – if he could just – but they were too far, so he dismissed them to a corner of his mind and kept looking…implements aplenty yet equally out of reach and thus useless – and then he saw it. Saw Hope, a dull glint almost within reach, half buried in muck and slime and he knew: the Force was with him, if not within him. The Force would not trick him. Desert him, it had, but not entirely – and the Force would never play dirty. No, there was a reason he was lying on the ground, cheek pressed into the dirt.

The Force would not save him, but, it seemed, it would give him the means to save himself.

All he had to do was reach for it.

His fingers crept out, a slow slide towards possible salvation, masking the movement with seemingly futile and desperate attempts to shake the other man off, anything to keep his attention. The man wanted him dead, of that there was no doubt, but he wanted to see Obi-Wan squirm. One might well believe there was some personal animosity between them.

So squirm Obi-Wan would. But he would not beg, not for his life. That was reserved only for others.

But the Force was fickle, for it answered to the false Jedi as well.

* * *

Across the galaxy, a Sith lord reveled in the Force's conflict. The Force strained to save one while another compelled its power even against its will. In the Jedi Temple, Yoda squeezed his eyes shut as the currents of the Force roiled; its normally docile currents forced into a whirlpool of agitation.

All because a would-be Sith was in his element, about to crush the spirit of one loathed from childhood. _Kenobi_ had festered in his soul for years; the hate dormant until stirred to life by the unexpected assignment to watch over a former slave boy.

He knew Kenobi's weaknesses well and never had he been so vulnerable as now; without the Force, battered and bruised, rejected and tossed aside by master and Force alike – he was susceptible to manipulation as never before.

And he meant to wring every last drop of blood from his veins, drip the poison of self-loathing into his mind and prove Kenobi's utter failure as a man and a Jedi – to "bosses" old and new, to Kenobi himself, and to the Force. Death must be slow, an agony of disintegration of spirit and body: painful and humiliating.

So, "Oh, no, you don't," he gloated. The vibroblade smacked into his open palm barely after that same hand clipped his lightsaber to his belt, an action so fast it was almost a blur as the other hand shot out and gestured to the side. "You'll die damning yourself and the Force both," a feral grin curled his lips, "unless you stop me." His free hand closed like a vise, a predator seizing its prey. A yowl, growl and hiss in one snapped Obi-Wan's head up and to the side. Defiant and outraged, a feline skidded across the ground, tail lashing and front claws swiping futilely through the air, trailing behind her, three mewling fluff balls, kitlings that had only just opened their eyes.

Coiled and curled in an furiously unhappy ball, its tail lashing furiously, the mother was unceremoniously yanked upright and dangled by the scruff of its neck in front of Obi-Wan's face, so close its whiskers tickled his nose, the same old feline that had all but demanded his chin scratches and rewarded his efforts with purrs and gentle kneading.

"Stop me, Kenobi - or I'll gut the animal before I do the same to you."

* * *

_All is calm_ – the constabulary droids had reported. The Force knew better and so did Jedi Master Dooku.

It took all of his discipline to concentrate on the matter at hand – the crime committed and the possible motive – rather than the trouble young Obi-Wan was in. He had to hope the young man was capable of dealing with it. He was, under usual circumstances, for Qui-Gon had trained him well according to Mace and Yoda.

But usual circumstances this was not.

There could be no connection between this horrible crime – murder and attempted murder – could there? Surely _he_ was not meant to be one of the victims, for no one gained a thing by his renunciation of the title.

All that was gained was his prolonged absence, a chance to plunder the manor perhaps - and a clear field at Obi-Wan!

But why?

And then the Force twisted and shrieked – and Dooku knew it might already be too late.

"I must return," he announced abruptly. "Might I presume upon you for a lift, Inspector – your air speeder is faster."

* * *

"What!" Obi-Wan croaked, raising his eyes to the gleeful, baleful eyes. He was sure the shock in his eyes matched that in his heart. Surely he had misheard, but no - madness danced in the blue depths mingled with an unholy glee. Obi-Wan shuddered, but not for himself. No, he did not wish to die, but was prepared to do so if it was his time. But this gentle creature did not deserve, no animal deserved, to be a pawn in this deadly game or to suffer for the sole purpose of making Obi-Wan suffer.

Nor did he wish to see her kitlings orphaned, alone in a world they were not prepared for.

Dare he protect his conscience at the cost of innocent life? Could he sacrifice them to avoid sacrificing his soul? Yet once his soul was sold, what then? Who would then suffer because of what he chose to be, no matter the reason for his choice?

Could he reach for the Force and find not dark, but light reaching back?

The thought – that hope – splintered and drifted away, unfortunately to be forgotten, in the horror of the words next spoken.

"Why ever not?"

The cold indifference only confirmed the utter depths of depravity to which this man would sink. He would harm others without a second thought – harm with the clear intention to emotionally gorge on others' suffering. Obi-Wan stopped struggling, a plea in his soul strangled: to give voice to his contempt might well make matters far worse than silence. For others – these innocent creatures - he would beg, but should he? Should he pretend indifference?

And the Force guided him not.

He was forced to rely solely on his own judgment.

No, he decided, that insane giggle and a shrug of shivery anticipation told him that further protests would only inflame the man to a tyranny of torture to a helpless animal. Already, one ruby drop promised of many more to come with just the slightest of provocation.

What exactly did this man want from him – rage and hate? Horror and despair? Shame and humiliation, knowing he had failed to not only protect himself, but innocent others?

But perhaps he could deflect the attention back to himself, could make it seem he did not care.

"It's – it's only a 'pathetic life form'." His pretended indifference was betrayed in a stutter as he realized he could _do_ nothing even if he judged hasty action, though such was sure to be almost certain suicide, the better move. The Force was pinning him into place. _Why?_ He was a Jedi, the Force's faithful servant and ally – he was supposed to prevent harm, not acquiesce to it! In his mind, forgotten, the myriad of occasions a Jedi was restrained from action – legal or physical.

No matter the wish, a Jedi – the Jedi – could not always intervene, not always prevent harm.

Those still pure of heart, those whose idealism was not nibbled away by pragmatism and cynicism, struggled to accept what they could not change, as Obi-Wan now struggled.

He must do something because he _had_ to do something.

Misuse – abuse – of the Force by the one who opposed him could not deter him. He _had_ to find a way to intervene. Without the help of the dark. Without the help of the light?

But how?

"A raggedy 'pathetic life form'?" A pretense of deliberation crossed the cruel visage as the man stepped back a pace. He cocked his head to one side and grinned, almost clapping his hands in glee while he half-pranced around the prone Jedi. "Like you – you who don't dare to reach for the power to stop me. You could, you know, my master was right about that. Succeed, no, but give me a decent challenge. As it is, you're pathetic. Go ahead, stop me - oh, wait; no, you can't. Fear paralyzes you. Your cowardice is a stench in the Force. You're helpless; really, you should have stayed in Agri-Corps, you know – poisoning crops rather than – such _creatures._"

The feline choked and its paws scrabbled against empty air as if an invisible vise had tightened around its neck.

"Shall I kill them all before you? Let you die knowing the blood of 'poor, innocent little pathetic creatures' is on your hands because you, the so-called servant of the light, was too scared of the dark to save them?"

"Only the wicked and weak terrorize the innocent," Obi-Wan spat, his whole body shaking with his resistance to the Force hold that held him immobile – helpless – a witness to an impending atrocity upon which both seemed to agree that he should be able to avert. His eyes slid sidewise, up, down, once again seeking anything – a diversion – a way to fight back.

A way to save one who could not save herself.

"Oh dear me, no, only the wicked and strong." The smile never wavered; only grew wider. "Like you, these pathetic life forms clutter up the galaxy. So, before _you_ go bye-bye, say bye-bye." With an audacious wink and sloppy grin, his adversary skittered one tiny kitling close, ever-so-casually lifted his foot…

…and a kitling's squeal was cut short.

* * *

Desperation, horror, and glee tainted the Force, felt in some degree by all except the one who was at the unwitting center. Reactions were varied and mixed.

A Sith mentally rubbed his hands in anticipation: the goad was about to unleash a swell of hatred.

A Sith-wanna-be was not quite drunk enough on exhilaration to suddenly wonder if he might have been wiser to exercise his lightsaber rather than his tongue.

A Sith-who-might-have-been silently swore. "Faster," Dooku exhorted. Inside, he wondered if it was too late – and just what he feared most: a dead grand-padawan or a victorious one.

Amongst those forever allied against the Sith, few suspected the Force teetered and oscillated: sympathetic to one who fought for life yet commanded by one who fought for life's destruction.

None living had ever heard the Force wail.

* * *

High up in the Jedi Temple, Yoda raised a clawed hand to his forehead and blinked. "A moment, if you please," he stated to the assembled council, then frowned and abruptly called the meeting to a close.

"What is it, Yoda?" Mace had remained behind when the Council room emptied. He tried a feeble joke. "We could have dimmed the light when the sun emerged from the clouds. That's quite a storm out there."

"Emerged it did not," the diminutive master snapped back.

"Well, it tried." Mace pointed out; he, too, had shaded his eyes for a moment there. It had been an unusually stormy day, complete with thundershowers and rain. As programmed as the weather was, there were glitches in the program from time to time, though storms were usually brief and publicized in advance. He shrugged, suddenly mindful of the words. "Your favorite saying does not apply to Weather Control."

Yoda merely grunted and swiveled his head to gaze soberly at his fellow master and friend. "Feel it – _hear_ it - you did not?"

"N-no," Mace shook his head and leaned forward, dark eyes affixed on Yoda's. "I felt – nothing?"

"That 'nothing' it was that I felt – the Force – holds its breath." One claw absently scratched at an ear.

That was what Mace had been unable to put a finger on: the constant pulse of the Force was in abeyance. He had never heard, never felt, such a thing.

"Rare, it is, rare," Yoda muttered. "For the Force to stutter like this, most unusual. A portent it may be. Trouble it may be. And yet – a good sign it may be." His ears curled forward and he sighed. "Meditate on this I must, seek answers within the Force as well. Confer we must, but later."

He raised a clawed digit just before Mace exited. "Before you leave, Master Windu, tell me – believe, do you, that the Force can …?"

The eyes that met Mace's were profoundly troubled and somehow that was more disturbing than Yoda trailing off in the middle of a sentence. When Yoda could not voice his thoughts, finding them incomprehensible or worse – too appalling to be voiced aloud – and the Force was silenced as well –

Mace shivered.

* * *

The growl of outrage came from two throats.

The snap of fragile bones ignited within the Jedi a passion that was stronger than the Force hold and purer than indignant outrage: an explosive surge of energy against which nothing could stand.

Not even a Force restraint, especially when aided and abetted by the shriek of a bereaved mother feline; held invisibly aloft by the neck her paws were, however, free and unrestrained. Sharp as vibroblades, her claws swept out and raked the arm of one who would dare harm her kitling. Feline and drops of red all flew sideways with a sweep of the wounded arm, more a result of the assailant throwing his arm up and out to deflect the animal to protect the vulnerable flesh of his throat. In that same moment, Obi-Wan surged upright with a mighty roar.

"You – will – **not** – harm another in my stead!" A vicious punch knocked the man stumbling backwards, expression stupid with shock and shock at the unexpected attack. An outraged Jedi was a terrifying sight, to the sane and insane alike. Jedi, man and feline tumbled to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs, paws and growls.

Heedless of the scattered weapons torn from his tormentor's grasp, Obi-Wan drew back his fist for another blow, poised to strike with righteous fury. He could stop this: one punch to the sinus cavity or use the weapons at hand – his eyes darted to the vibroblade, the lightsaber, his very fingers, for even they were easily a weapon if they wrapped around the neck and _squeezed. _

He could end this. Now. The blood pounded in his ears, the drumbeat a jarring cacophony of discordant notes.

_This – this is what Qui-Gon saw in me? The stumble…the desire…the urge to obliterate? _

He had intended to kill the tattooed warrior from the moment Qui-Gon had fallen. He would have killed more than one that day had he succeeded. In his moment of triumph he would have been lost.

_This – this is what Qui-Gon saw in me? Not what I had done, but could do? My potential – my affinity for the dark when stressed?_

Somehow, there, that time he had wrested himself into the light and dealt the fatal blow with grim purpose, killing rather than murdering, protecting those whom his duty was to protect rather than – indulging his tumultuous emotions of grief and anger.

His fingers trembled. Dare he end it now, like this?

His fingers itched to end this, his soul, however, screamed and pleaded that all he had to do was remember who he was and all he had ever wanted to be: a Jedi. Was this another test, this one without witnesses, not even the Force?

But there was a witness – his conscience.

Never had he not listened to it; in the absence of all else, it still remained and it would not keep its peace until he heard and acknowledged it – and so he listened to his heart speak to his mind, and his mind speak to his soul, or perhaps it was the other round, or perhaps all speaking in unison, both a whisper and a shriek: _Master, please…fix it. It's dreadfully hurt…"_

_Mend_, not _destroy_. Had that not always been his first instinct? But who would he mend if he destroyed this man in front of him?

And just who would he destroy?

His eyes widened and affixed on the man who had not only tried to kill him and humiliate him, but had used him to kill an innocent creature to get him to unleash his anger: and here he stood, fingers clenched into fists, his chest heaving with pants that threatened to be sobs, and knees trembling to keep him on his feet

It would be so easy. So very easy.

And so very, very wrong.

And so he stayed his hand. Revulsion twisted Obi-Wan's features as he stared into the face of his would-be killer. He swallowed, and then carefully, calmly unpeeled his fingers, one at a time, from the taut fist.

The silence was broken by a cackle of triumph. Eyes that sparkled with malice and glittered with satisfaction met his.

"So the great Kenobi struggles to do right, struggles to do wrong. My master was right about what lies at your core. You cloak your darkness with the semblance of compassion, but oh, how you wish to strike me down without mercy, don't you? I kill one pathetic life and you retaliate, oh, how you wish to retaliate. I see the anger and the hate burning in your eyes, reaching for your soul, the desire to hate me; to kill me. You feel the unplumbed depths of darkness within you. Lift just one finger to me to start now down the path and know it will forever curse you."

"I will not be accursed." He shook his head, not aware of doing so; not aware of speaking aloud.

"Dear old Obi. Do or do not, there is no try yet here you stand, unable to cling to the light; scrabbling to keep his feet out of the muck: so undecided, straddling the line. First Naboo, now here – the call is more compelling each time, harder to resist. You're trying to resist it, but it is winning, is it not?"

The answer to that was a decisive no. Each time he was tempted he came away stronger, didn't he? _Why, then, are you so consistently targeted by the dark, so often its prey?_

Qui-Gon would say – had all but said – one step forward, one long fall downwards. _And Yoda said one step forward and a right turn and pivot_…

With a silent inhale and exhale, buoyed by the memory of the revered master's words, Obi-Wan released the tumultuous, paralyzing thoughts. Now was not the time; he could face his inner demons after he successfully faced the outer. Now, all he had to do was fight in the light. So, as centered and serene as a man under siege could be, Obi-Wan denied the allegation with a slow shake of his head. "The dark is ever seeking; perhaps it is inevitable to totally avoid its touch, but it can be refused a home."

A disbelieving "huff" greeted this. "The dark is persistent and it always wins. You must know eventually you will Fall, if not this time, then the next, or the time after." Maniacal laughter burbled from the man's throat as if the last veil of sanity had been ripped aside. "But, I will not allow you a next time; I will not be my master's sacrifice to gain you!"

Obi-Wan slowly straightened. Caked in dirt, face scratched and bruised, hair tousled and unruly, he stood tall, looking every inch the Jedi Knight he wished to be and in a corner of his mind he so desperately feared he was not.

"Live or die, it shall be as a Jedi and not as your 'master's prize' for I will not strike you down in cold blood."

Fighting an urge to rub a hand over his eyes, he drew a deep breath instead. He was weary, so very weary. He had not the strength to prolong the fight, nor, he suspected, had his opponent the desire to do so. Not any longer. All this taunting and gloating had been both a cause and a result of his opponent's psychological wish to indulge his personal animosity, like a hunter playing with its prey before consumption.

Inevitably, play time turned into meal time when the hunter, as now, wearied of the game – or in this case, the indulgence in capricious cruelty had been satiated. How he knew this, he wasn't sure, but he _was_ sure of one thing. Blood lust dominated now.

Obi-Wan's lips curled then, not in a sneer, not in satisfaction, but in understanding and acceptance: death was now but moments away – inevitable, unavoidable, and inescapable - no matter how unwanted. His eyes flicked sideways, up and down, taking inventory of a scene to be forever burned into memory.

Eyes almost gray with fatigue and sadness, the Jedi's hand lifted upwards, a plea and warning both, and continued softly, "I shall not, however, hesitate to strike you down in battle if you force my hand. Surrender before I kill you or you, me. Let us end this without further bloodshed." His eyes flicked down to the cruelly sacrificed kitling almost at his feet. "Let there be no more death this day."

His answer was a battle cry of unleashed fury and hatred.

"So be it," Obi-Wan breathed, slipping a hand within his tunic and wrapping it around one of the packets previously stuffed within. He lobbed it as the man charged, lightsaber blazing. It was a quick diversion to allow him time to stoop and scoop up a handful of muck. In a fight for one's life, playing dirty was to be forgiven.

The bag was bisected with a simple swing but the hastily flung dirt was not so easily batted away. While much of the liquid was instantly vaporized, other droplets flash heated. Some of the steaming mixture completed its trajectory and splattered on target, clinging to brow, eyelashes and cheek.

Even half-blinded, eyes almost certainly blurry if not burned, the man only slowed in his lunge for the Jedi, but it slowed his advance sufficiently for Obi-Wan to back pedal two steps, grab the long handled flanged fork and slam it into a block against the descending lightsaber with every bit of strength he could muster. The blade cut through the flange like it was an illusion rather than an ancient metal alloy, but the Jedi was already flipping the implement around. Incandescent metal struck wrist and lightsaber hilt both.

An ordinary man would have recoiled and dropped the weapon. This one didn't.

But he was off balance and in pain, and unable to avoid Obi-Wan's kick to his midsection. He flew backwards, against the workbench with a thump that sent tools and containers to scatter and clang. Trickles of fluid, some thin and watery, some thick and viscous, flowed or trickled from lids knocked ajar.

Some might be toxic, some were certainly caustic. And the lightsaber – it wind milled all over the place, held by a man flailing for support.

Before he could shout a warning, long before that warning might have been heeded or perhaps ignored, it was too late. The lightsaber swept to one side – and ignited a fireball.


	61. The Fiery Breath of Hell

I have to apologize in advance, but my muse has thrown up its hands and departed. Hopefully it will return before I run out of already-written chapters, but I think it's been scared away by the high caliber of so many other authors on this forum. I am reading nowadays, not writing.

* * *

**Chapter 61. The Fiery Breath of Hell**

"You can't purify my soul with flames, Obi-Wan, I – feed on – on fire – and – and brimstone!" Two eyes sizzled with hatred from within an inferno. Man, voice, and eyes slowly melted behind a curtain of smoke. An accusing finger jabbed out of the swirls and stabbed at the Jedi.

"You – you wear your weapon and I saw it – not…" A triumphant cackle gurgled into a gleeful giggle, rising in a crescendo of hate before swallowed by silence.

Shaking himself from the moment of startled horror, Obi-Wan hurtled forward. There was no thought of self preservation, only joint preservation as the smoke spun and shifted, obscuring and revealing in turn. Flames, flames enveloping the man who had done his best to kill him… He was sent stumbling backwards by the shock wave of suddenly exploding ancient canisters, a cacophony of horror spitting in all directions.

Knocked off his feet, the Jedi's mouth thinned as he huddled with his arms upraised to protect his head, crouching on his knees until the bombardment ceased. Reminiscent as it was of the time he and his friends had used the Force to heat grain kernels and pepper unsuspecting fellow initiates with fluffy treats, this was no prank and no game, no harmless application of lessons unwittingly inspired by Master Yoda. These containers were projectiles and their contents unknown, possibly volatile, and quite possibly toxic.

_So close_, he fretted, _so close_ as he squeezed his eyes shut from the wash of heat.

The shoulder had been almost beneath his hand, so close: his fingers had brushed fabric. _So close_. Keeping low to the ground, the Jedi desperately reached forward once more, hoping to once again touch a hand, a shoulder, even a piece of clothing. He felt nothing, except heat; heard nothing, except the crackling of flames.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn paced. It irritated him no end; he did _not_ pace to release stress. He meditated. But the Force rarely soothed him these days. Only once recently had it brought great peace, but its peace had then been followed by a tempest. And now –

He tugged at his collar. "Anakin, have you been messing about with the temperature controls?" He was sweating, he could almost _see _flames surrounding him – and checked the thermostat. It read normal.

"No, Master." Anakin came trailing out of his room dragging his blanket behind him - and rubbing his head as well, strands of his short hair tousled and unruly. _Young ones_. He almost smiled and shook his head. Xan and Obi-Wan had rarely displayed such charming childishness - except when sick and then it had most definitely not been _charming_ – why, he remembered a scratchy-voiced padawan, rubbing his eyes and announcing, "I'm tired of resting in bed, Master. May I stay out here, pleeeaase?"

Of course, he had been stern in his no. A padawan who was sick needed his bed, not his master to coddle him.

Looking much younger than his fourteen years, Obi-Wan had meekly nodded and turned back to his room when he said no, dragging that damn blanket behind him. Not until his fever abated had Qui-Gon allowed his restless padawan the freedom to roam their quarters – and that had been mainly to keep an eye on the boy while he caught up with his class notes.

No, he wasn't going to be taken in by flushed and heated skin from a hot towel, such a convenient excuse to lounge about, as he had been taken in by Xan. If a padawan whined and begged to escape his bed, said padawan would be promptly sent to classes.

He frowned at the memory.

"Are you sick, Padawan?" He winced at the harshness in his tone, but unlike then, unlike Obi-Wan, Anakin was secure in his master's affections: he merely shook his head and clambered up to the now-seated Jedi master and buried his head against his chest.

"Bad dreams, Master," came a muffled voice. "Lots of anger, Master. Bad things. I'm scared for mom – someone wants to hurt her."

Qui-Gon hugged the child close, speechless for once. _Yes_, now that he thought about it, there had been an undercurrent so teasingly entangled in his perceptions recently, sounds and thoughts that fell silent when he tried to listen, a tickle across his mind like a memory that one could not quite reach. "Bad dreams" as a child might put it: _angry voices, hate and fear, staining the Force. Heated emotions, stress and strain. _He shivered and drew his padawan closer, the Chosen One – was he now one actively sought by the dark? If the Sith had caught onto his Force sense, they would howl and bay at his mind.

And through Anakin, through the bond, it bled to him as muted and indecipherable background noise.

Shielding, he promised himself, would be the next lesson.

* * *

_Think, Kenobi_.

The door was behind him, the man was in front of him and likely somewhat to his right, perhaps on the ground and perhaps reeling in shock and pain. Could he no longer scream, or even whimper in pain? He heard no gasping breaths, no choking coughs. Did he lie unconscious before him? Waving his hand to clear a path through the smoke – and that was a mistake as his lungs were quick to inform him – Obi-Wan hastily pressed his sleeve over his face, using the cloth as a rudimentary filter while groping with his right hand. His fingers tickled cloth and he scrabbled for a hold. He would not let go, he would not – he would -.

Whatever he was trying to grasp jerked away, leaving the Jedi's finger nails to rake flesh. A hand?

"I'm not going to hurt you, I'm trying to save you," he called, all his nerves thudding and urging him to _get out now while you can. Before you both die_. He ignored the call of a human body under stress. This time, the breath he took was more cautious but just as necessary. "Take my hand, okay?"

It was an offer nearly accepted, though not in the way anticipated.

He snatched his hand back, the whoosh of a vibroblade far too close for comfort._ Ugh, I didn't mean that literally_, he mumbled, nursing his fingers.

"No! You're trying to kill me! Hated me – always hated me…" The voice trailed off in a litany of curses punctuated by gasps and thuds as of a reeling man unable to keep his balance, falling into things and dislodging them – or fumbling for those things to use as weapons.

"I don't have time to hate you; I'm not sure I have time to save you without your cooperation!" _Cool down, Kenobi. _Somehow he managed a wry grin at his words despite the seriousness of the situation. _Cool down; _he sure wished he could.

"Look, I'm trying to save both of us before either of us suffocates." His voice was hoarse; he swallowed a cough. "Look, you can try to kill _me_ once we get out of here but first we both need to get out of here."

A muted gleam swiped through the smoke, its hum Obi-Wan's only warning to dodge and duck. "Or sooner," he muttered unhappily. The last thing he wanted to do was to abandon someone, anyone, to save his own skin. But how long could he stay here and argue? Drawing breath was already difficult. Dying so that the other man would survive was not a favored alternative. He raised his voice. "After we get out; _after_. Remember?"

"Why wait until then?" The voice was mocking, strangely calm for a man who by rights should be screaming in pain.

The smoke was thick and oily, _no doubt toxic, too_, his mind added wryly. The lack of visibility both hindered and helped – hindered him from offering help and helped him avoid injury, or worse.

How long did either of them have? He could save no one if he was overcome himself.

The chiding taunt spurred another attack as he half-hoped, half-expected. Anticipating the subtle shift in his perception of color as the lightsaber was partway through its second blind sweep and seeing his opportunity as well as tattered and smoking cloth, Obi-Wan dove under the blade, clamped onto the hilt, and then twisted and rammed the wrist into the wall. Nerveless fingers released their grip and the blade spun in an arc over both their head. One edge clipped Obi-Wan, but did no harm. Like most lightsabers, if not all, it deactivated when out of the grip of its wielder.

"Don't be a fool, man. You'll die here if you don't let me help me."

"I don't need your help and you will get none from me. Burn in Sith hell, Kenobi!"

Obi-Wan dived for the ankles as a shape charged past him. The thud was followed by a screech of a seriously unhappy feline. Four were in danger – well, five, if he counted himself, he remembered. He crawled forward and let fly with a fist just as the indistinct figure half rose.

Both men collapsed to the ground – and Obi-Wan stared at the face half-turned away from him.

Heat and hate had twisted the features into something bizarre and almost inhuman, a part of the Jedi's mind noted, but he had no time to stare, to wonder, or even care. His skin could be flaking or boiling, but he would die if Obi-Wan did not get him out by whatever means he could.

Pushing himself to his elbows, then his knees, Obi-Wan tried to grab the man and hoist him, but he hadn't the strength and flopped to the ground, his elbow painfully ramming into the ground. He wiped his face, stooped low, and lifted the man's ankles. If he couldn't carry him out, he would drag him. There was no time for delicacy.

Step by slow step, he persevered – it was only a few steps, just one at a time and he'd get there. _C'mon, Kenobi, you can do it._

A hand on his shoulder startled him badly. "Here, let me, you're reeling on your feet. Get outside, I'll get this one."

Nodding, Obi-Wan turned and stumbled forward as a cloaked figure pushed past him. He reached the doorway, passed through it, hit fresh air. He bent over with his hands on his knees, gulping in oxygen.

Then he turned back inside.

Life knew no hierarchy of worth; it had taken him some time and some maturing to overcome his innate need to weigh pluses and minuses, worthy causes versus those less worthy, to judge not rather than to judge on the superficial. He had never demeaned some, but he _had_ elevated some above others and occasionally devalued some, assigning a hierarchy of value based on some nebulous perception shaped through an immature prism. Sometimes, though, life had taught him that relative value judgments could not be helped, not when not all could be helped.

Hence the choice he had faced: a man – or a family of kitlings? To choose meant to choose whom to possibly abandon. So he had made a choice: to save the man and in so doing, had chosen by default one over another, no matter how unwilling, to possibly sacrifice others: to decide which life had the higher priority. The higher life form had had precedence, even if he wasn't feeling quite so generous.

It was not an easy choice, and yet, it was. A Jedi was trained to make those kinds of choices by a master who trained the padawan how to live with decisions that one should not have to make.

Two choices had faced him, but he had decided to make it three. Not whom to choose, but who and in what order. A man who had tried to murder him, a man who had killed a defenseless kitling, a man with the mental capacity to choose to murder – or small animals, able to give affection, able to kill but not capable of facing the morality of their kills, the vermin who they hunted as food.

The third choice was the human choice, allied with the Jedi's choice: not to choose one over another, but to choose whom to save in what order he could save them – and to save them all, Force willing.

He took a deep breath and plunged back inside, passing the mother who was hauling one kitling out of danger by the scruff of its neck. The mewling led him to the second kitling, unsteadily weaving on its paws. A pathetic squeak accompanied a touch of a tiny nose to his fingers.

"Come, little one," he coughed, scooping up the small shape and stumbling outside, then on a whim or a hope turned and stumbled back for the surely dead – but maybe not – kitling. Would the Force do another miracle? Not through him, like as with Qui-Gon, but –

Kneeling beside it, he reached out a tender finger and stroked the tiny cheek even as he tried to massage life back into the small body. He knew from past experiences that the Force did not spare the innocent as it did not always condemn the guilty and then chided himself: good and evil were done at the hand of sentient life, not the will of the Force. _How then did I save Qui-Gon: I have not the force of will to command his life_ – the crash of a falling beam alerted him to danger.

Carefully cradling the limp and broken body in his hands, the other tucked within his tunic, he stumbled for the exit.

_Maybe just injured, maybe just overcome with smoke, maybe revivable_ – all the maybe's ran together through his mind.

He made his way outside, to come face to face with an incongruous scene.

_Well, that's unexpected_, was all that came to his weary mind as he blinked and slipped to his knees. _Master Qui-Gon?_

His knees buckled.

* * *

Anakin loved small creatures, at least those who did not hold the potential to grow into big creatures that might wish to harm him. His soul sizzled with the remembrance of Iego, even if in the dream Iego had six legs. Just as in real life, he had held the potential to save Iego and just as in real life he had failed, only in the dream it had not been he who murdered Iego.

It was a Jedi.

And he knew him. If he could only remember.

He buried his face in his master's tunics and cried for his lost Iego.

Whatever Dooku had expected, it wasn't a burning shed.

Nor did he expect to see his grand padawan sitting cross-legged on the ground, ash drifting around him like snow and flames crackling nearby, sitting with a kitling in his hands and tears upon his face.

"I cannot mend you, I'm so sorry," the boy seemed to be muttering repetitiously.

Then one of the more amazing things Dooku had ever witnessed happened: a feline stood, front paws on bent knees, looked up at Obi-Wan and then stuck her nose against his before curling up by his side so her two kitlings could nurse.

_What in the Force happened here!_

He glanced around, noting that the Inspector who had accompanied him was hurrying off to the creek side with one of the constabulary droids. He suddenly realized it was a body, face down in the water. He sharpened his Force senses: the stench of conflict was still strong and it was tainted with the same sense of wrongness as in the legalitor's office.

He swiftly turned his attention back to his grand-padawan. The boy's exhaustion and sorrow burned in the Force – and now he was bowing his head, one slow tear at a time sliding down his cheek, oblivious to the outer world.

Dooku was a pragmatic man, one driven by logic and not emotion, so he was hard pressed to understand his momentary hesitation to interfere and the equally uncomfortable wish to comfort. Death was unpleasant, yes, but also a part of life and thus not to be taken to heart. Kenobi should not blubber so, it was – it was

"Un-Jedi-like?" A part of himself offered.

"Eminently Jedi-like," another part of himself countered, the same part that had told him years ago that Kenobi and Jinn, Jinn and Kenobi would be better for the acceptance of compassion and affection – better men, and thus, better Jedi.

He shook himself out of his scrutiny, leaving the Inspector to prowl the scene barking out orders.

"Obi-Wan!" He knelt beside the pale young man, subconsciously noting the bruises and bloodstains, the sheer _filth_ of the boy. _What the Sith hell had happened here?_ He turned his attention back to his grand-padawan. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

"I – was attacked; I fought back as best I could, but – this little one died, not I." Obi-Wan shuddered, visibly drawing himself together. His brow knitted in some confusion, but a part of his training held: he knew on some level what Dooku wished to know. "I feel I knew him…knew the voice, anyway, knew the insults he hurled at me. But it doesn't make sense…he said my death would make him the second most powerful man in the galaxy. How could that be? It's not like by defeating him, I take that role. I'm just a Jedi without the Force, Master." He slumped further, shaking his head and forced out a small laugh. "Force, I'm so tired."

"Yes, well, I would think so." Dooku carefully reached for the small body and set it aside and then hauled Obi-Wan to his feet where he steadied the young man.

"I fought in the Light, didn't I?"

Dooku's eyebrow lifted. "What makes you ask?"

"I didn't, not on Naboo, did you know? That's why…Master Qui-Gon knew it. I didn't, but he did. I heard it through the bond, all jumbled like." Obi-Wan dragged a hand down his face.

"Yes, well, we'll talk about this later." Dooku pumped a bit of Force energy into Obi-Wan's lax body. "After you've rested."

"I need to question him," the inspector said, straightening up from his examination of what Dooku had assumed to be a body. "Jedi or not, he's the only witness we have, but first we have to try to save this one."

"He's alive?" Dooku blinked.

"Half-drowned, half burned alive. We're EVC-ing to the Med Center."

"Under guard, of course."

"Under guard?" The inspector lifted an eyebrow. "He's hardly going anywhere in his condition…of course, under guard, Master Jedi. And your boy there – "

"Is out on his feet. You can question him later. I assure you his story will be more coherent and just as accurate later on." Dooku held up a hand as the inspector tried to protest. "Trust me, Inspector, I, too am a member of the Judiciary. Any questioning that might be done will be recorded for your review, if you wish. We'll both be behind you – shortly."

"Don't clean him up."

Dooku merely snorted. He was well aware of the protocols of the situation. The only reason Obi-Wan wasn't already being questioned was because he was reeling on his feet and nearly incoherent. He flapped his wrist at a droid. "That one can come stand in the corner and make sure all the evidence remains intact."

"Full recording, of course."

"Of course."

"Always a pleasure to deal with the Jedi," the Inspector drawled.


	62. Oy Vey, What a Day

If anyone is still reading, I regret to say that I hit a** major **roadblock - this story is NOT abandoned by any means, but the next chapter is still eluding me. It will continue**.**

* * *

**Chapter 62**. **Oy Vey, What a Day**

It was to have been a day of fresh beginnings. It had instead turned into a day of near tragedy.

And not a few "what-ifs" and "why-fors."

After making sure young Kenobi was in need of sleep far more than any other attention and ensuring it would be a restful, albeit short, one, Dooku had left the young man abed. He had promised there would be no cleaning of body or clothes and the constabulary droid left in the corner would be his proof of such.

He had then returned outdoors and studied the scene under the watchful eye of the droids, but like so much, it did not speak to him, so he had returned to the residence and poured himself a drink while waiting for the constabulary speeder. He stood behind the desk now, staring inwardly rather than to the outer world, detachedly admiring it.

Like all else in the home, it was magnificent, the workmanship top notch. The connoisseur in him appreciated what he was leaving behind. He ran a hand over the fine wood.

No regrets, he told himself sternly. Objects – things, they weren't important, but then they never had been to him. Principles – ah, those had been what he had always held most dear – sometimes to the detriment of other things, other people…how much richer his relationship with Qui-Gon might have been had he valued him more and principles less. Was it too late now? Strange, that his padawan's estrangement from his own padawan had ultimately led to this wish to grow closer.

Without this – epiphany of self-realization - he would have grown further away from him – and grown towards – what?

Arrogance? Disdain? Away from the Order, away from the Force? Insulated in a cold little cocoon of self-congratulation and sheer conceit that his principles trumped all else and perhaps, ultimately, even the Force itself?

His was a tidy mind: too concerned with the meticulous stacking of ridiculous boxes that contained what it held – standards of proper behavior, for one – into perfectly aligned, neat little piles like an academician too attuned to perfect theories to feel comfortable in and thus scornful of a world full of human foibles. Qui-Gon was untidy, spilling hither and yon, too attuned to human consequences to care what went where as it long as it found a place. Young Kenobi seemed a blend of both of them – a realist and a dreamer, an orderly man with a penchant for imaginative solutions .

_Angels wings_, indeed. Despite his concern, he chuckled at the memory. The young man had a streak of mirth at the center of his soul that the Jedi master envied. He and Qui-Gon had been well-matched, each contributing to a partnership the envy of the Temple.

Dooku suddenly scowled.

He had raised the man; despite the whims and fancies of a man a bit too attuned to the Living Force, Qui-Gon was not an unkind man. Living on blind faith, a leaf blown hither and yon on the shifting winds of the Force, prone to speak his mind without regard and regret, obedient to a fault to his perceptions against all rhythm or reason, Qui-Gon was, however, not a fool and not a cruel one.

He might accidentally trod upon the metaphorical feet of his apprentice but Qui-Gon Jinn was not a Jedi and not a master who would willingly cast away another for another.

Not without a reason; not without – compulsion.

The sheer enormity of this realization drew his brows together and a frown to curl his lips. What evil stalked in the galaxy? Was it the shroud of the dark side that and whom did it seek? Qui-Gon? Kenobi? Had the Chosen One truly come amongst them to purge the dark, or was the proclaimed bringer of light instead the opening sally of the dark, the covert spy meant to destroy from within?

This was just one of many reasons he was convinced there was an explanation for his padawan's behavior of late. Qui-Gon was too tied to the Living Force to behave – like his master might have – heedless of the human consequences in his single-minded march onward. Around like-minded people – like Palpatine – those who were convinced their visions trumped all, who would Dooku have trod on -

_Dear Force_. He had to admit he could have – might have – discarded people as easily as Qui-Gon had seemed to discard Obi-Wan.

Kenobi – so much revolved around Kenobi. Solve that mystery and find – what? Find that the Force indeed worked in mysterious ways?

With a decisive tap of his finger and a good swig of liquor, he sighed and resumed his seat where not so many hours ago he had thought his biggest concern was the ceremonial clothing. Right now he had far more important matters on his mind.

It was time to contact the Council. He had many questions buzzing around his mind. However, his first request would be to ask for the master of Force echoes to be recalled from his mission and sent here immediately. Jorak. Jorak might find at least one of the answers.

Answers he needed.

Answers Obi-Wan needed.

By Force, perhaps answers his own padawan didn't know to ask - and needed.

* * *

A nice cool drink; yes, that had been sufficient to tame the heat. Qui-Gon smoothed a hand over his boy's face, ready to send him back to his bed. "Better?"

The small head nodded. "Still feel - hear…"

A cold knot of fear coiled in his stomach. "Voices? Thoughts?" _Visions?_

Anakin shrugged the way children often did when they had no better way of expressing themselves. "Kinda, sorta - not words, Master Qui-Gon." He chewed his lips and shivered. "Just bad things."

"Impressions?"

Tilting his head to one side, Anakin scrunched his face in thought. "Yeah."

"Like…," Qui-Gon pursed his lips. Like disgust, rage, a strange sense of protectiveness? Emotions he couldn't decipher; a mix of dark and light both? "Like anger?

"Kinda. Yeah." The little head nodded vigorously. "Like when you were so mad at Obi-Wan there on Naboo. You wanted to hurt him for being mean to me 'cept someone had already hurt him, so I guess you didn't."

"No, I didn't," Qui-Gon agreed. He didn't, no, but he had wanted to, oh, how he had wanted to flashing back. How dare his former padawan threaten Anakin? It was the same encompassing anger he'd felt at Tahl's killer. Like a man possessed he'd stormed into Obi-Wan's room; furious, so very furious…Obi-Wan would never hurt Anakin again. Never, ever.

"_How dare you…" _the words had died on his lips as he reached the doorway_. "Oh, dear Force, Obi-Wan!" _

He had fallen to the young man's side, he remembered; lifted the limp body into his lap. Blood, there had been so much blood.

"_Obi-Wan?" _His fingers had been shaking, hadn't they_ – _yes, shaking fingers had reached out; he had dipped his head close to hear the sound of breathing and found – at all.

_Obi-Wan is dead._

He had held the body in his lap, numb and disbelieving, barely registering the hands on his shoulders, urging him to let Obi-Wan go. _How could he let him go, his Obi-Wan? He could barely stand the thought of losing him to Knighthood, let alone the Force._

"_He's dead, Mace. My Obi-Wan is dead." _His voice had been hoarse and his hands atremble, red with Obi-Wan's blood. Obi-Wan's blood on his hands.

_And the voice gibbered within: mourn him not. You mourn what never was for Anakin has told you what he was. _

_It was so much easier to bear the pain by giving in, by accepting, by believing – a belief that time had not dispelled. His inner voice had spoken true – must have spoken true – because if it had spoken false he would have been broken…_

…_broken – like Obi-Wan had been broken._

Qui-Gon had wept inside once; he would not weep again. He had released that pain by focusing on the lies. He had released the truth of Obi-Wan to the Force with the help of Anakin as he had once released the truth of Xanatos to the Force with the help of Obi-Wan. Each new apprentice had cleansed him of the prior. In recompense for the pain, the Force had rewarded him with the Chosen One.

His Anakin.

* * *

Anakin was rather glad he couldn't really explain things to Qui-Gon. He was so confused, especially nowadays. Love, hate – such a misery of feelings assaulted him that sometimes he just wanted to scream – so instead he sought out his master's warm comfort – his understanding, his gentle hugs that reminded him in some ways of his dearly beloved and missed mother. However sincere, however feigned, the soft words and hugs didn't banish the confusion but did soothe it.

He craved and thus accepted the warmth, but distrusted the motives behind its offering, for what did Qui-Gon truly know of hate and fear and sorrow? Of the fear entwined with the love?

His master just wouldn't understand, just couldn't. He hadn't loved _anyone_ enough to love them despite anything they did or might do - or had already done. He'd abandoned two padawans, Knight Beebe had said. He didn't know much about this "Xanatos" person, but he knew _Kenobi_ and even if he didn't like him much, Qui-Gon had abandoned him, even if for Anakin himself. Well, _not entirely abandoned_, he allowed, but he hadn't fought against the demand to abandon Kenobi; he had seemed to embrace it.

So maybe Qui-Gon didn't really care all that much – not for Xanatos, not for Kenobi and not for Anakin.

Maybe he didn't like Kenobi because, like Anakin, the former apprentice did care too much. Sometimes caring hurt, at least between men. He knew his hurt and pain as he knew the delight of he-who-called-himself-father, just as much as he knew his own joy at supplanting another in a gentle man's affections. Pain, betrayal, love, jealousy all tangled and wove amongst them, skeins of emotional entanglement, manipulated by he who was the center of the connections, a hub in a vast network known to some and unknown to others.

Every once in a while a twinge of sympathy for the former apprentice softened his heart; rare times when he imagined – no, knew – what it felt like to be treated so callously. In some ways, maybe Kenobi mirrored him, but like an imperfect reflection in a fun house mirror because he, Anakin, would never be so weak. He would fight back; Kenobi fled.

Coward.

There was no strength in retreating. No strength in holding onto caring for one who did not care back. No pain, when fighting; no pain, when angry. Only pain and hurt for one such as Kenobi, who had wept like a baby in the beginning.

He trusted nothing but a woman's love. His mother's love.

Only his mother's love was a source of no pain and all strength. For her he could be and do anything, no matter how impossible. His mother was perfect.

And so he understood why he-who-was-in-his-head hated whoever had or would hurt someone he loved, though he wondered who and he wondered why. _He_ knew love and hate equally well, even if he had never seen or felt the love, only the hate.

_He_ was worried to desperation. One he loved was threatened by another.

And they all felt it, somehow.

Because he knew he, too, would do anything and brave everything to protect his mother with every ounce of his being, his perfect, loving mother, Anakin didn't really blame _him_ for the overwhelming terror and rage that raged like a storm but he still wondered: how could a man be so cruel and horrible while willing to take on the galaxy for love?

* * *

"Poppycock," Yoda said sharply, ignoring Mace's start of surprise at his choice of words. Dooku didn't react at all, after all, he had been raised by Yoda and no one was more familiar with the oddities of a master than his padawan. Yoda scratched his chin and then glanced at his fellow councilman before turning his attention back to Dooku. "Padawan, Master Windu was able to slip in under Obi-Wan's shields on Naboo – let him speak, I will, shed some light on this he might."

"Well, he did briefly draw on his anger after Qui-Gon was downed," Mace said, clearing his throat. Why did he seem to think Dooku should find that surprising? Both knew it would be a rare Jedi, especially an unknighted one who had not yet faced his trials, to be unaffected by such a sight. "Until he lost control of it, he managed to use his anger somewhat effectively, too, at first." A thin smile turned into a cough and shake of his head. "Paid for using it, as well."

Yes, Yoda had spoken of all that, Qui-Gon's fall, Obi-Wan's anger-enhanced battle, the fall into the pit and the yielding of his anger and surrender to the Force. Dooku nodded to indicate his understanding.

"Obi-Wan proved what we had long suspected: his last trial might come late compared to his peers as we suspected it would be hard to push him as far as that day's events did. We were sure that when that time came he might do more than just face the dark road but roar down it until he hit the crossroad of choice. A more thorough renunciation of the dark we could not dare hope for. Yes, Jan, Obi-Wan finally faced the test we all face; he stepped beyond his fear and anger and he more than accepted the Force, he surrendered to it." A rare smile crossed his face as Yoda grunted in agreement, a smile that Dooku had long expected to see on Qui-Gon's face, a paternal and proud smile. "We could not have devised a better trial for him."

No, no they could not. To move beyond the Dark to Light, one had to pass through the Darkness. All knights did. Some, like Obi-Wan, needed the clarity that came with distance to see the victory rather than the almost-lapse. Such clarity Obi-Wan had not been granted – no, the young man had promptly been repudiated and the living bond wrenched from him.

"So why does Qui-Gon insist he Fell?"

Yoda's ears curled back against his head at the blunt question. "Mmph."

"Don't grunt at me, Master. I know what you told me. I also know what Obi-Wan told me."

"Told you?" Yoda perked up. He looked pleased. Scratching his chin, he added, "Earned his trust you have. Very good, very good. More of what he told you I would hear."

"He harbors deep doubts and he doesn't want to believe Qui-Gon but he trusts the man. Still. Over his own self-knowledge; it's been shattered anyway due to what he's been through. My padawan was dying and my grand-padawan was pouring out his own life force to save him – and he was mentally slapped with _that_; all through the bond. What was Qui-Gon – what?"

The two Councilors looked at each other. Dooku frowned; what did they know or suspect? He sifted through the words, the expressions and the non-expressions on their faces.

"Jorak!'' both exclaimed at once.

Ah, yes, the healer; one of the reasons he had called – he wanted the man to come help with the more esoteric side of the investigation into the assaults. He knew – the Force all but insisted – there was a connection, well-hidden though it might be.

"Sorry I am to say that all contact with Jorak has been lost," Yoda reported, leaning forward on his gimer stick. He squeezed his eyes shut, but before he could add anything, there was a click and Mace was turning back to the hologram projector with a datapad in hand, his fingers flying over the buttons.

"I remember the preliminary report mentioning what seemed to be spontaneous bond regeneration in Qui-Gon's mind that was not echoed in Obi-Wan's. What if this bond came from someone with ill intentions?"

"Towards Qui-Gon? Obi-Wan it is who was most injured by this."

"And how could such a bond be formed without Qui-Gon's knowledge…"

"Are you thinking the same possibility I am?" Mace asked Yoda. He glanced at Dooku, his face stern. "I think it best that Yoda and I speculate and all that is associated with that while you concentrate on Obi-Wan; see if you can get some more information out of him. You're returning shortly, aren't you?"

"We were leaving today."

"Good." Mace was curt, something Dooku recognized as the Councilor about to leap into action. "You've the experience to guide Obi-Wan through this; don't let him evade talking about it. He has a tendency to brood, thinking he's sparing those around him his burdens. He just makes those around him worry more than is necessary."

Ah, Mace had firsthand experience, it seemed.

"It is my job to worry about my Jedi," Mace huffed, catching Dooku's smirk.


End file.
